


With the Charity of Brotherhood

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Irradiated and Crispy [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Abstinence, Adorkable, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Arguing, Awkward Boners, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Bad Dirty Talk, Bad Flirting, Bad Sex, Bandages, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Biblical References, Blow Jobs, Blue Eyes, Body Horror, Bonding, Breaking Up & Making Up, Burns, Catholic, Catholic Character, Catholic Guilt, Celibacy, Chaste Kisses, Childhood Memories, Christian Character, Christianity, Chronic Pain, Come Marking, Confessions, Conversations, Cowboy Hats, Cultural Differences, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Easter, Ejaculate, Embarrassment, Emotions, Eventual Romance, Eye Trauma, Family, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Flower Crowns, Flowers, Fluffy Ending, Freckles, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Ghouls, Gift Giving, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Happy(ish) ending, Having Faith, Holding Hands, Injury, Injury Recovery, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Kink Negotiation, Latin, Legion slave trade, Lent, Loneliness, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, M/M, Makeup Sex, Male Friendship, Medical Conditions, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Minor Surgery, Mormonism, Mutation, Mutilation, Nature, Non-Human Genitalia, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Beta Read, O'Hara is the least threatening ghoul in the world, Old Age, Old Friends, One-Sided Attraction, Pacifism, Pain, Partial Nudity, Permanent Injury, Philosophy, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Prayer, Pre-War outfits, Reconciliation, Reflection, Religion, Religious Discussion, Reunions, Rimming, Roman Catholicism, Romantic Gestures, Saints/Hagiography, Scars, Scripture References, Self-Reflection, Seminarian!Courier, Setting Boundaries, Sexual Inexperience, Shyness, Skinny Dipping, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Romance, Sprained Ankles, Suspenders and Sun-Hats and Scripture, Swimming, Talking, Temptation, Theology, Trauma, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virginity, Virginity or Celibacy Kink, Vomiting, Watching Someone Sleep, Water, Weird Biology, Wet Dream, Wooden Dildos, Yao Guai, again of a sort, awkward everything, bangin' at the Ultra Luxe, closet kinkster!O'Hara, discussions of temple garments and scapulars, forgot to tag that earlier, humping the mattress, mood lighting, moving too fast and making mistakes, navigating relationships while religious, of a sort, oh my, praying the rosary, radiation!mutation, radioactive glow-in-the-dark ghoul cum, respecting your partner, sex while disfigured, sex while religious, tall!Courier, the Courier's a Californian, tumors/growths, uncertain future re: outcome of war, virgin!Courier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 41,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various kink meme prompts inspired this fic of a Catholic!ghoul!Courier finding love and common ground with Joshua Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When will I tire of writing new Courier OCs? Oh, I dunno. Probably never. :P
> 
> This fic is partly meant as a contribution to the renewed hype in the fandom re: Fallout 4. It's also meant to amend the tragic lack of Joshua Graham slash in the world. And ghoul slash, for that matter.
> 
> And it's also because, as a very devout man who happens to be gay, the idea of adding a little faith to my slash is immensely appealing to me. :3 (Plus Kennedy O'Hara has proven to be a very adorkable OC to write.)
> 
> Title is taken from Romans 12:10. All Bible verses are from the Douay-Rheims version.

* * *

Being in Utah was almost like being in the old world. Here, the sun kissed the earth with tenderness, and the water flowed, clean and pure as the waters of baptism. Everywhere was beauty the likes of which O’Hara had not seen in centuries. His good eye grew misty at the sight of the Broc flowers growing in such undisturbed abundance, and the bushes of honey mesquite flourishing along the path.

At the first opportunity, the courier waded into the river and followed its winding way to his destination. The surprisingly cool fluid eased the pain in his stiff and aching joints, and made him feel clean again, cleaner than he’d felt in years.

He felt calm here, which was more than he could’ve said in New Vegas. He’d never been to Utah before, and had no expectations, but what he saw, he liked. Dangerous wildlife and angry locals weren’t an unreasonable price to pay for serene surroundings and a change of pace.

The Dead Horses Camp was up ahead. He was curious about what he’d find there. The young man they’d sent to meet him, Follows-Chalk, had been pleasant enough, in that open, curious way young people always are. He’d never seen a ghoul before, that much was clear, let alone one that could talk and wear suspenders and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He’d murmured something initially, when he’d first seen the patchy expanse of ruined skin that constituted O’Hara’s arms and face. Something that sounded very much like “Joshua.”

As the courier carefully dodged bear traps, he imagined what these people might be like. Much like Follows-Chalk, undoubtedly, with tattoos and lithe, athletic bodies on display. Strong, fierce people, built for surviving in this strange and wonderful place. _They are good artists,_ he mused at the sight of one of their paintings, gracing the rough surface of the rock. The art was decidedly tribal, so different from the restrained and meticulously-orchestrated pieces from the old world. O’Hara didn’t mind – far from it. There was something very present and alive in the frenetic strokes of natural pigments smeared over the stone.

He was half-right in his assumptions about the Dead Horses Camp. There were not as many paintings as he'd been hoping for. Still, it was full of people, each of them as fascinating as the next. He looked with interest on the traditional markings inked into their skin. They looked with equal interest on the mottled surface of his body, alternating spots of exposed sinewy muscles, and leathery skin that still bore evidence of the freckles that had covered him from head to toe before his ghoulification. He allowed the stares – he was not ashamed of his scars, as unflattering as they were. He wore the sleeves of his age-yellowed Pre-War button-down rolled up to his biceps, always had, always would, and he felt the tribals’ eyes fix on his arms as he made his way into Angel Cave.

Follows-Chalk’s comment made sense the moment O’Hara saw Joshua Graham sitting at his table, maintaining his weaponry. The ghoul couldn’t help but smile at that. He supposed, in some ways, they did look alike.

Joshua paused in his work at the sight of the courier. O’Hara took it in stride. He looked a sight, standing 6’5” and wearing freshly-picked Broc flowers in the band of his sun-hat. He nodded by way of greeting, a crooked smile cracking across his face. The Burned Man turned back to his weapons, shaking his head.

“I’ll admit, when I heard of the arrival of a stranger from the Mojave, I was not expecting a ghoul.”

 _He has a splendid voice,_ O’Hara thought, and said as much.

“You could give a good sermon with a voice like that,” he rasped. Joshua released a soft noise of surprise.

“A man of God?”

O’Hara nodded.

“As are you, I take it?”

Joshua confirmed this. O’Hara grinned, showing teeth. When Joshua asked him for his help with tracking down old world miscellany, he agreed immediately.

“To help a brother in faith,” he croaked, “is a far greater priority to me than finding my way back to New Vegas.”

And so it was, for the thought of Joshua was motivation for him each day of his winding journey through the unfamiliar land. It was so rare, nowadays, to find someone who had a mind for theology, an appreciation for faith. How people managed without it, O’Hara didn’t know, and yet, they did. Some with false idols, like his brethren at REPCONN test site, and some with vice, like the many poor souls who patronized the unfortunate (but aptly-named) Gomorrah. Was that truly managing? He wasn’t entirely sure, but it had been going on, more or less, since the beginning of the end.

Joshua, though, he understood. He knew what it meant to be lost, what it meant to turn to the Lord in those moments of doubt. O’Hara sensed in him the soul of a man who’d asked for God’s forgiveness, but who had not yet forgiven himself. Restlessness, unsettledness, seemed to follow the man like a bad smell.

 _But he is trying,_ the ghoul reasoned _. That is what will save him. And his friendship may, in turn, save me. Iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend. Proverbs 27:17._

It was easy enough to pray for the Burned Man. O’Hara thought of him in the evenings, when he took the first watch, Follows-Chalk sleeping nearby. The courier’s long, stiff fingers worked over the worn, black beads of the rosary he’d restrung countless times. It was the very same one that his dear Dympna, the favorite of his siblings, had pressed into his hand at the train station as she stood up on her tip-toes to press her lips to his cheek. She had smelled like the flour from their father’s bakery, like the powdered soap they’d bathed with since childhood, like home. Then twenty-five and very green, never having left their town before, the thought of leaving to go east filled O’Hara with dread. Dympna had sensed as much, bless her, for she’d embraced him and tucked the rosary into his hand.

“Go on, Ken,” she’d said with a sniff, drawing a wrist under her nose, eyes watering. “You’ll be a fine priest.”

“I’ve got a ways to go, yet,” he’d reminded her, for it would be some time before he’d be fit for ordination. She nodded.

“But you’ll make it. I’ll be able to be married someday by my own dear Father O’Hara, and it’ll be ever so grand.”

It had seemed all too possible, then.

So many years had passed and still the injustice of it all was a test of the ghoul’s faith. One day. _One day_ before his ordination, the whole world as he knew it went up in radioactive smoke. Dympna was atomized, turned to nothingness, no doubt. The same with his father, and the bakery, and the others at the seminary. The same with the little robin that liked to perch on the window by his bed.

 And yet, O’Hara remained, or what was left of him. He thought of Job, he thought of his sister and the saint she was named for, and, now, he thought of Joshua.

The man was not a Catholic, and that alone, in his hot-headed younger years, might’ve been reason enough for O’Hara to dislike him, but the days of prejudice and small-mindedness died for him with the old world. Joshua believed in a Christian God and that was all it took for O’Hara to hope to call him a friend.

By the time O’Hara had met Daniel, he thought of Joshua more frequently than just during his evening prayers. He recalled the saying ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ and then admonished himself, for how could the heart grow fond of someone it had only just met, let alone the shrivelled, atom-damaged heart of a ghoul? Yet he thought of those white bandages when he saw the sun-bleached bones of some long-ago decomposed creature on the path, and he recalled the color of the man’s eyes when he witnessed the sky reflected in the Virgin River. When he came to the wreck of the bus, and stood knee-deep in water wherein were sunk the remains of children, he wept with his good eye and thought of the Burned Man’s voice simply for comfort.

 _A friend,_ he reflect _, is something you have missed. Where there is no governor, the people shall fall, but there is safety where there is much counsel. Proverbs 11:14._

And so, when he had cause to, O’Hara set out on his return to Angel Cave, intent on forging a bond of brotherhood with this man of God, no matter how long it would take him. O’Hara was a ghoul, after all. He knew the virtue of patience. A human being, with so little time upon the earth, could never hope to dally for longer than he himself could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O'Hara is possibly the most adorable courier I've ever written. He's definitely the most adorable ghoul.

* * *

O’Hara was up to his thighs in the crystal clear water of the Narrows when the Burned Man came running towards him. The thought sent a thrill of rare happiness through the ghoul, much greater than his day-to-day contentment with the world. This was a surging, cresting sort of joy that had him biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too wide.

The smile faded as Joshua spoke and his true intent was made clear. War. Vengeance. O’Hara felt an ache in his chest, for even here, it seemed, war never changed. _Man_ never changed.

“Let us go somewhere we can talk,” he said, for it was hard to be heard over the sound of the waterfalls crashing all around. They moved to the banks, squatting in the sand, and it was there that the ghoul voiced his concern.

“I beg of you, please, consider the implications of your decision,” he said. “I do not mean to patronize you; only to offer counsel. You and I have seen too much of the world for me to be dishonest, or to mean you disrespect. You are a smart man; I have no doubt of this. I cannot let it go unsaid, however, that I believe, in eliminating the White Legs, you will be committing an act of treachery that is nearly unforgiveable.”

Joshua’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I don't enjoy killing, but when done righteously, it's just a chore, like any other –”

“I am sorry but I cannot agree! One needs only to look at Scripture, for the Word is clear on the matter. Exodus 20:13.”

“I appreciate your point, but with all due respect, I don’t expect an outsider to understand how things work here.”

The courier made a frustrated noise and clenched his jaw in exasperation.

“And I do not mean to preach to you, but I find that I must! Perhaps it is because it is all you know. I understand that this is the world into which you were born, but I can recall a time before the end... Things were not perfect – far from it! There was poverty, and ignorance, and disease, and perversion, and war… obviously there was war. But there were good things, too. There were some of us that saw a glimmer of hope. I see that glimmer still, though with each passing generation, I feel a little surer that my hope is all in vain. I remember… oh, Joshua, it was wonderful. If only you could have seen it.”

The ghoul stared down at his hands, which trembled. He inhaled sharply, his drooping, sightless eye throbbing. The radiation had done something to its tear ducts; now, all it could do was hurt.

“The Church in my hometown… and how I hoped it would be mine to lead someday!… would be full of fresh-cut flowers every Sunday. On Eastertide, it was full to bursting with the most fragrant, beautiful blooms. My Mother always said flowers were God’s way of showing us He loved us – by making something beautiful, for beauty’s sake. And the people – all kinds of people, young and old, straight and crooked, beggars and bankers and housewives and bakers… they would fill in every pew, singing and smiling and praying together. There were always weddings and baptisms. My father… he sang in the choir there. When I was a child, I was an altar boy. My early days were filled with awe and wonder, the sight of the sun shining in through stained glass, the smell of incense… there was so much good in the world of my youth. Perhaps it is this memory that makes your words so painful – your past, I have accepted. God has forgiven it – He will even forgive you your future killings. But I had hoped… I had prayed we might be friends. And if you go on without considering… considering the legacy you choose… I will not be able to bear it.”

Silence followed O’Hara’s outburst. He traced a pattern in the sand with a rough fingertip.

“You’re very thoughtful, for a ghoul,” Joshua said after a time. “And you speak very well, despite the state of your throat. You sound practiced.”

“I am. I was. I was set to be ordained the day before… well. Let’s just say, God had a different plan for me.”

O’Hara kept his eyes lowered. He didn’t like to talk of that day.

“A minister,” Joshua murmured.

“Priest, actually. With a name like O’Hara, I trust it’s no surprise to you that I was… I am Catholic.”

“Mm. That must be quite difficult, with no Pope to guide you now.”

There was no malice in the Burned Man’s words. He sounded genuinely interested in what the courier had to say in reply. O’Hara shrugged his shoulders.

“It is not easy. I pray that somehow,... somewhere... the Church survived. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find out one day. Until then, I do what I can. I pray, and I write down my observations of the world. I do my best to pass on the teachings to those I meet as I wander… we can but try.”

Joshua nodded.

“Wise words. I don’t just mean those last ones, either. You’re a passionate man – your faith is like a rock.”

O’Hara did not know what to say. He felt the phantom sensation of blood rushing to his cheeks, where once he might’ve blushed.

“I agree with your ideals, but practicality brings with it new considerations. Still, I will reflect on the things that you have told me. Consideration is something I can give.”

O’Hara looked up, brightening.

“That is all I can ask,” he said with a slight quirk of his peeling lips. Then:

“Forgive me – I don’t mean to pry – but… you must be in considerable pain.”

Joshua hesitated, somewhat taken aback by the new line of questioning, before replying.

“... You have been honest with me. I’ll award you the same courtesy. I am in pain, yes. There’s nothing I’ve found yet that can stop the –”

“ – the burning! I mean… I presume it’s similar. My… scars. They’re just burns of another kind. Radiation may heal me now, but it has not always been so... good to me.”

Joshua blinked, surprised.

“Your scars still hurt you? After all this time?”

O’Hara nodded.

“Every day.”

They did not speak after that, but listened to the lapping of the water against the bank.  When Joshua stood suddenly, he offered the ghoul his hand. O’Hara took it, and rose to his full height.

“It will be dark soon, and I must talk to Daniel. Come – there should be some food to be had. I’m ashamed to say, I never bothered to find out – you people do... eat, don’t you?”

O’Hara couldn’t help but flash him a cheeky grin.

“Who, Catholics?”

The retort caught Joshua off guard and he let out a rare laugh – the first of his O’Hara had ever heard. It warmed him to know he could draw such a reaction out of the other man. The warmth remained with him all through dinner and on into the night, long after the fires began burning low, and the Sorrows camp was filled with people sleeping. O’Hara needed little rest himself – one ghoulish attribute he’d come to appreciate. He sat in the near darkness, lips moving as he worried old, black beads between his fingers. Through decade after decade, prayer after prayer, the curious warmth remained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exodus 20:13 - Thou shalt not kill.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update: had to fix some setting issues because I was stupid with exhaustion when I posted this and accidentally mixed up some geography X_X

* * *

O’Hara sat with his long legs stretched out in the water of the Narrows, thumbing his way through a small notebook he had fashioned out of pre-War paper, thread, and mole rat skin. He’d intended, upon taking up a job with the ill-fated Happy Trails Caravan Company, to fill it with an account of the native flora and fauna, and the people, of Utah, for he’d never been so far east, and had always had an interest in the world around him. He’d considered, before choosing the priesthood, careers as both a naturalist and an anthropologist, full of enthusiasm as he was for all of God’s Creation.

He noted, however, that now, most everything he wrote down in his little book were observations about Joshua Graham.

In truth, this fact did not surprise him. He was no stranger to himself. One could not live for over two hundred years without acknowledging certain… qualities of one’s nature. He had known of his inclinations since he was as young as fourteen, when first he’d discovered the wonders of fitness and self-improvement and, with that, physique magazines. A common story befitting a common boy.

Back then, the impulses had petrified him, and, after a few disastrous attempts to romance the girls in his class, he had prayed for God’s guidance, and a way to free himself from sins he had committed, not in deed, yet, but in thought.

Things were more complicated now. For one thing, in this new and unknown world, O’Hara wondered very much if affection, when expressed with informed consent, could be such a very bad thing. There was so little joy to be found these days left that surely any love, no matter how unconventional and unproductive, was worth something. With so many evils in the world, he found it hard to condemn two loving people for taking some comfort where they could.

For another thing, many women nowadays had difficulties with their womanly parts, thanks to the radiation that permeated the air they breathed and the food they ate. Infertility was not uncommon, nor were difficult pregnancies that put the mothers in grave danger. Should they too be denied love if their love should prove fruitless, or if they chose to take their pleasure in a way that would produce no offspring?

O’Hara didn’t know. He speculated about it from time to time, but wasn’t keen on taking a position. He tried not to judge others, and to live as best he could. As for himself, he remained chaste, as he always had been, and had never seen much cause to change that. And yet, that didn’t stop him from being… and he almost laughed, for he’d nearly thought ‘human.’ He could not help but be fascinated by Joshua Graham. He couldn’t help but wonder.

 _He needn’t know,_ O’Hara reminded himself. _You are not obliged to tell him._

He didn’t intend to, though he felt a bit duplicitous about it.

The Mysterious Broadcast was a comfort to him. The smooth, easy tunes reminded him of his father’s records that he and Dympna had danced to when he was a boy in short pants. He listened as the water lapped at his cratered skin.

Joshua Graham. His pencil traced the name into the reclaimed paper. Joshua… a good name. One far older than the old world. A Biblical name. It was familiar and it was strong. The Burned Man was certainly strong – strong of soul. Lesser men might’ve crumbled away to nothing, lost their sanity in the heat of the flames, but not he.

“Do you ever ‘fall?’” O’Hara had asked him, and Joshua had readily admitted that he did. O’Hara could appreciate that. He sinned almost daily, even with centuries to practice and improve.

Still, it was different. O’Hara had felt many things when he’d transformed, but anger had not been one of them. He was grateful to be alive, despite his loneliness and grief. God had a purpose for him worth keeping him around for, and that meant everything to him. When the courier sinned, it was in little ways. Eating too much, thanking too rarely, drifting off mid-way through his prayers. Very rarely, it was something a bit worse, like taking the occasional thing he found along the way. He didn’t do it often, but sometimes he had to, and it never sat right with him, for he’d been raised to never, ever steal.

Joshua, though, had real darkness in him. He had light and beauty too, of course – O’Hara knew very few people who didn’t have some tiny bit of worth in them. But oh, his anger! So much anger, burning in that young man’s breast. It made him seem younger still, made O’Hara ancient by comparison which, he supposed, he was.

“St. Jerome,” he murmured to himself, “is sometimes invoked against anger. Do Mormons have saints?”

He didn’t know. He chewed on his lower lip and wracked his brains. Words came back to him, far older than himself, and he copied them down to paper.

“St. Jerome,” he mused. “His words fit Joshua nicely.”

With a pained grunt, the ghoul rose from the shore and wandered over hot earth until he reached one of the shelters that dotted the camp. He poked his head in and smiled when he found the Burned Man, sitting on a sleeping mat on the ground, studying Scripture.

Respectfully, he waited in the shadows, and would have been content do so indefinitely, happy just to watch the human in contemplation, but Joshua sensed his presence and called to him without so much as a glance in his direction.

“What is it, Courier?”

O’Hara faltered. He wondered if, perhaps, he was overstepping some sort of boundary in sharing his memory with this brilliant, tortured man. He hoped it wouldn’t come across as insulting.

“I had a thought, while I was soaking in the waters,” he began. “I remembered something… I thought you might like to hear it. It’s a quotation – I’ve always had a mind for quotations. Two hundred years can go by and I still remember the jingle they used to use to sell those YumYum Deviled Eggs.”

His cheeks stung. He was rambling. Joshua was letting him ramble, and the thought made something flip in his chest.

“We Catholics have a Saint by the name of St. Jerome. He’s actually the patron saint of librarians, or perhaps it’s scholars… bible study? I can’t recall. How I can quote the man verbatim and not recall that detail, I don’t know. It’s strange, I will admit, but there you have it – at any rate, he is sometimes invoked against… a-against anger.”

Joshua paused and looked up, his blue eyes unreadable.

_Don’t stop now, Kennedy. Go on._

“This quote of his… it’s from a letter that he wrote. I thought perhaps… well. You might like to hear it.”

The ghoul cleared his throat with a wheeze and then opened his little notebook to the passage, reading it aloud.

" 'In the remotest part of a wild and stony desert, burnt up with the heat of the scorching sun so that it frightens even the monks that inhabit it, I seemed to myself to be in the midst of the delights and crowds of Rome. In this exile and prison to which for the fear of hell I had voluntarily condemned myself, I many times imagined myself witnessing the dancing of the Roman maidens as if I had been in the midst of them: In my cold body and in my parched-up flesh, which seemed dead before its death, passion was able to live. Alone with this enemy, I threw myself in spirit at the feet of Jesus, watering them with my tears, and I tamed my flesh by fasting whole weeks. I am not ashamed to disclose my temptations, but I grieve that I am not now what I then was.' "

He looked up, his good eye searching Joshua’s bandaged face for some sort of reaction.

“I think… I think that it is providence that brought us together, you and I,” he continued. “You, Joshua, are in so many ways what I am not. I am quite monastic in temperament – always have been. I’m more comfortable tending to plants and praying in solitude than I am amidst great crowds of people. You… are a man immersed in life. You speak to the tribals, you care for others. You have such a potential for good.”

O’Hara lowered his eyes to stare at the Burned Man’s feet. He pursed his cracked lips and swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“I have been praying for you,” he said. “I have been praying that the Lord grants you some comfort. If there is anything I could do to help you, I would – please, know I would. I have been fretting, too… you know where I stand on the situation with the White Legs. You are tempted not by passion but by rage, and how I hate to see it! It is a poison, like a scorpion sting, and would that you’d let me, I would draw the poison out of you.”

The conversation was getting away from him. O’Hara had not conversed with anyone of importance in so long he’d grown rusty, and now he was speaking entirely too plainly. He thought he saw a flicker of amusement in the Burned Man’s eyes and it made him flinch, humiliated by his pathetic, shameless display, his neediness, his desperation for some sort of closeness.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I just… I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know why I’m standing here, babbling. I just haven’t had anyone to talk to in – oh, it’s been years – and I don’t have any idea what to say to you, except everything. I just want to… I just want a friend.”

Joshua hummed in response.

“I’m not a man who generally has… friends. Most people seem happier at a distance. Truthfully, I don’t mind keeping them there.”

O’Hara nodded.

“I know! I don’t want to intrude or disrupt you. I just…”

He shook his head and took a step forward.

“Would you let me join you in prayer? I am not sure how your people do it, but we’re after the similar audience, as it were, and it would mean a great deal to me.”

Joshua remained silent for a moment, and O’Hara was suddenly struck by an urge to turn and run out of the shelter, to leave this tense atmosphere behind him.

Then, all at once, the man shut his eyes and bobbed his head.

“Very well. I will show you how to pray like a New Canaanite, but only if you show me how your prayers differ from mine.”

O’Hara grinned at the man’s concession, smile wide enough to split the corners of his mouth, which stung and bled a little. He found that he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is prayer!flirting a thing? i guess it is now :/
> 
> also, i have no idea if there are typos in this - I'm exhausted as can be right now. curse you, chronic insomnia.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O'Hara may've learned to pray the rosary in Latin, but I learned it in English, so I had to copy the prayer from online. Hopefully it's written correctly/reads well/etc.

* * *

O’Hara’s rosary was the only possession he still had from the old world, and he cherished it. He removed it from his pocket, and held it out for Joshua to see.

“My sister… my sister gave me this. The day I left home for the seminary,” he murmured. “I’ve kept it with me ever since. She’d gone on a trip with her friends to see the Vatican, and brought it back from there as a parting gift.”

Joshua looked at the ancient beads with interest.

“We don’t use such things in our worship,” he said. Then, haltingly. “How do you…?”

“It’s divided into decades. Today’s… what’s today? Friday?”

Joshua thought for a minute.

“I think so. It’s hard to keep track of time out here – each day is so like the next. I try to mark the Sundays, but I find myself off, on occasion”

O’Hara chuckled.

“Me too.”

He held the rosary with new purpose.

“Right. So, we'll presume Friday, then. On Fridays, we say the Sorrowful mysteries. Fridays and Tuesdays. And during Lent, of course. There’s five of them, and we work through them as we pray – the rosary is sort of... I suppose you could call it a memory aid, though it's more than that. The repetition helps to keep the events fresh in our minds. I could show you, if you like.”

Joshua nodded.

“Go ahead.”

“Right. Oh – just so I don’t alarm you, I say all my prayers in Latin. It’s the way I was taught before the War. But I’m not a Legion sympathiser.”

Joshua nodded again.

“I don’t think anyone could mistake you for that. Please, continue. Pretend I am not here.”

 _Easier said than done,_ the courier thought, but he tried his best. O’Hara began by crossing himself, and once the words of familiar prayer were falling from his lips, he soon forgot the man sitting beside him, watching attentively.

 _“_ _Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae,_

_et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum,_

_qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine,_

_passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus,_

_descendit ad inferos, tertia die resurrexit a mortuis,_

_ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Patris omnipotentis,_

_inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos._

_Credo in Spiritum Sanctum,_

_sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, sanctorum communionem,_

_remissionem peccatorum,_

_carnis resurrectionem,_

_vitam aeternam._

_Amen.”_

Next came the Our Father, and then the Hail Mary, thrice, and then he announced the first Mystery.

Minutes went by. The Burned Man’s presence was no longer a distraction. While it was true that O’Hara had never prayed with such a scrutinizing audience before, he found it did not bother him. When at last he finished reciting Hail, Holy Queen, he looked up and saw that the Burned Man’s eyes had closed. He was breathing deeply, slowly. O’Hara watched the gentle rising and falling of his chest, a smile pulling at his lips.

He wasn’t offended. He was touched. That a man like Joshua Graham was sleeping in his presence was as strange and wonderful as if a wild dog had let him pet its belly. A show of trust. Primal. Pre-human. He felt a rush of tenderness warm his old ghoul heart, and put his rosary away before rising from his seat to bend over the sleeping man and murmur against his bandages that covered his ear.

“I’m all done. You can wake up now,” he breathed. The Burned Man stirred and his eyes fluttered open. O’Hara thrilled at the sight of them up close. Such a brilliant, beautiful blue.

_Easy. Don’t forget yourself._

“Ah – forgive me. I didn’t mean to – you went on for quite some time and I don’t get a great deal of sleep these days.”

It was remarkable, seeing Joshua Graham flustered over something as commonplace as nodding off. O’Hara beamed at him.

“I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t happened to me before. Once at seminary, while I was in Chapel, actually. It was quite embarrassing,” he said, sitting back down with a contented sigh, “But I forgive you for it. Sleep is a rare commodity, at present. Might I ask, is it the pain…?”

Joshua nodded.

“The pain. Sometimes… sometimes dreams. Of fire. Of death. In those cases, I’d rather not sleep at all.”

O’Hara nodded.

“I have those too… two hundred and some years later. The bombs and… afterwards. I’d not made it to the shelter – I’d made a mad dash to retrieve my hymnal and gotten trapped. It was all for the best, really – the shelter at the Seminary proved to be a poor one. I’d legged it to a sewer pipe and even that proved sounder. I went back, you see. To look for… my friends. I found a tomb instead.”

Joshua reached out and patted O’Hara’s knee.

“I truly am sorry,” he said. “Losing one’s family, one’s friends... it changes a man.”

“That it does.”

O’Hara tried not to mourn the loss of Joshua’s touch as the Burned Man's hand retreated. He followed the pattern of Joshua’s bandages with his good eye.

“Sometimes water helps,” he said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. “With the pain. I’m sure you’ve tried it already, but perhaps it’d be worth trying again. Talking helps… with the dreams. The alternatives are chems and alcohol, and neither do you much good.”

“Have they done you any good?”

O’Hara shook his head.

“It’d be dishonest to say I haven’t tried them. Drink works… too well. I don’t like feeling like a stranger in my own head. Chems… I don’t metabolize the way I used to. Mostly they just leave me feeling sick.”

“You said talking helped. So who did you talk to before?”

O’Hara thought back to his many friends and smiled.

“All sorts of people. I travelled with a doctor for a while. He was a Follower of the Apocalypse – like you… very smart. Well-armored, didn’t like me asking him too much, but he listened well. He wasn’t a believer, but he could respect that I was. Another friend of mine was a ghoul mechanic. He remembered the old days, remembered the Church, too. Seems to me the only Catholics I meet anymore are ghouls.”

O’Hara laughed, but it was a melancholy laugh.

“It must be nice,” he said. “To have Daniel. To have someone of your own kind around to remind you that there’s hope. I tend to hope like others tend to gardens, but I still have days when I think, oh, how I’d love to go to confession! I haven’t met a priest to confess to since the bombs fell. Two hundred years-worth of sin adds up to quite a burden.”

Joshua did not answer immediately, clearly taking time to choose his words carefully.

“I can’t help you in your sacrament,” he said. “But I could listen to you as a... as a friend. If it helped. While I’m not bound by the laws of your clergy, I assure you, I would keep our talks confidential.”

“But you have so much on your mind already!” O’Hara protested. “I couldn’t add to your troubles – it would be unfair of me, to use you in such a way.”

Joshua averted his eyes – a gesture that conveyed a great deal.

“I had hoped,” he continued, “that it could be a reciprocal service.”

O’Hara’s good eye widened. He nodded immediately, and with vigor.

“If it would help you as much as I, I’d gladly do it! Whatever you want to say, whenever you want to say it. I’m all ears. Well, I would be, if mine hadn't fallen off. I’m all ‘ear holes’ doesn’t have the same ring to it, heh. Just follow the sultry sounds of music from my PipBoy and you’ll always find an eager audience.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkled. O’Hara was sure he was smiling.

“If all ghouls were as friendly as you are, I daresay we’d live in a very different world.”

O’Hara grinned.

“I suppose we would. And the same goes for Legionaries, past and present.”

Joshua froze, and for a moment, O’Hara feared he’d gone too far, but then the Burned Man startled him with a chuckle. “You’re very brave, to joke like that. If you fight as well as you talk, you’ll always have the element of surprise.”

O’Hara felt that traitorous warmth in his chest again and he bit his lip to quell it. _Brave indeed,_ he thought. _Brave as a coward who ties his heart-strings to someone he can never hope to have._

“It’s very late,” Joshua went on. “I am going to try to return to sleep. Perhaps I’ll join you for that conversation in the morning.”

The courier mumbled a goodbye at the other man’s departure. He watched him go. With a sigh, he buried his face in his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some body horror type stuff because yay! Ghoul anatomy!
> 
> Also... I had to look up medical images of a burn victim whose dick had been fused to his thigh. It actually happens, and I can now say that I've seen it. For all you readers. So yeah. That's a thing.
> 
> Also be prepared for some philosophy, theology, and reflection in this chapter. Two cerebral men bonding over their mutilated bodies is apparently prime ground for such things.

* * *

Sunrise was O’Hara’s favorite time of day. He had always loved it, even as a child, had always begged his father to wake him early so that he might help him in the bakery in the morning. He would wake and dress when it was still dark out, and be on the bus to school with flour dusting his hands and face.

His father had taught him to roll dough, to knead it and let it rest. His father had taught him to go to Church each Sunday, to always comb his hair with a side-part, to be good to his sister, and to do countless other things.

He had also taught O’Hara to be wary of things that deviated from this behavioral pattern.

It wasn’t a spoken rule – it was simply a part of life. O’Hara had learned it the hard way, when he’d befriended a neighbor’s child who, it had turned out, was a Protestant. His father had not been pleased, and had asked him in his thick, Irish brogue if there weren't any Catholic boys he could play with. O’Hara liked everyone – he didn’t mind playing with the boys he went to school with. But he didn’t like having to avoid the neighbor’s child, and he didn't understand his father's anger. It was un-American, to his young eyes, a relic of the old country.

By the time he was a young man, discerning his vocation, O’Hara had lost a lot of that hesitancy. He knew he was righteous, knew he was right, and was more than a little proud of that. It had been sinful, of course, to be so hubristic, but he’d never met a person in their early twenties who didn’t have some sort of ideological zealousness about them. He was ashamed of those days, now, of how small-minded he’d been to think so little of someone who was different than he – especially given that everyone, even non-Catholics, were nonetheless, children of God.

He would have had no problem calling Joshua a heathen in those days. He would’ve probably even been a little afraid of him – for almost all he knew of the Mormon faith was what he heard from his peers, and most of that ignored the discussion of theological interpretation in favor of shock statements about harems and idolatry and other such heated accusations.

Now, O’Hara felt differently. Mature faith was the product of a lifespan that stretched far longer than any human's ever could. Joshua's beliefs could be, admittedly, confusing to him – especially in the ways that they differed – sometimes dramatically – in their interpretation of the same Scriptural texts that O’Hara had grown up seeing in another way – but the man’s nature was intelligent. Profound. He was a thoughtful person. Yes, he had anger, and yes, he had sin - past sins more horrific than most - but he also had the deep quality found in the truly theological. He did not simply ‘go through the motions’ of religious living – he interpreted, he reflected, and he sought answers.

This, O’Hara could respect.

And well… if he was being honest… he felt a little more than simple respect. Devoutness and Bible-reading, no matter what interpretations were being drawn, were traits that O’Hara found both comforting and stirringly attractive. Morality, piety… the Burned Man had so much of what he loved to see in a man.

Whenever he entertained the thought of pursuing Joshua, he had to admit that he had no practical idea of what that entailed. He barely knew what he felt – only that he was lonely – had been so terribly lonely for so, so many years, and that with Joshua, he felt safe. Tempted. His worldly experience amounted to a few awkward kisses shared with a female high school classmate who’d been dead for hundreds of years, and the touch of his own hand when he’d been too weak to resist. Perhaps – and he doubted it very much – Joshua would have some experience laying with men, for there were rumors about the skirt-wearing Legionaries that one couldn't help but overhear, but even if he did, then what? It was doubly unlikely he’d bedded a ghoul before, and O’Hara’s anatomy had changed considerably since the bombs dropped, so that conventional knowledge no longer sufficed.

He’d tried to imagine it, once or twice, taking Joshua’s bandaged hands in his and kissing them. The Burned Man’s pain notwithstanding, even if they got down to the skin, he never could manage to picture those hands seeking out the remains of his penis.

He’d lost half the shaft shortly after his transformation, and over the next two centuries, the remaining stump had mutated. The scarred, jagged end had begun to peel back, bark-like, and strange, tumorous growths had built up around his urethra like some sort of creeping fungus. He could still use it, could still urinate, though he had to squat like a girl now, for he always made a terrible mess, no longer able to aim properly. He still had emissions occasionally when he slept – though now his fluids were a sickly sort of pus-yellow, and they were considerably stringier than they’d been when he was human, reminding him, nightmarishly, of thin, sticky worms. His one testicle had shriveled away to nothing, or fallen off with the front half of his organ – he couldn’t honestly remember, as he’d been drinking heavily in those days. The one that remained was hugely swollen and irregularly shaped, lumpy with tumors that hurt from time to time. Rarely, he bled when he passed water or spent.

No, even if Joshua wanted to lie with a man, he would not want to lie with O’Hara.

The courier was already submerged in the water for his morning swim when Joshua emerged from the shelter he’d slept in and ambled over to the shore. O’Hara fought an instinctive urge to cover himself, and instead greeted the man with what he hoped was an innocent-looking smile, well-aware that on his ghoulish face, it might look menacing.

“Good morning. Did you sleep alright?” he asked. Joshua shrugged.

“I’ve slept worse. I was hoping we might talk, though if I am disturbing you, I can leave.”

“You’re not. Here, sit on the bank. Put your feet in the water.”

Joshua resisted.

“Just try – please Joshua. It’ll make me feel much better about being naked as a babe, at least. If I still could, I’d be blushing, you know.”

The burned man hesitated.

“My bandages… they go all the way up – I’d have to remove them. It would take some time.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You can talk while you’re at it, if you like. Or not. Whatever suits you best.”

O’Hara prayed he didn’t sound overly eager. In truth, he did want Joshua to try soaking, to see if it would help his pain. He cared deeply for the other man’s well-being. He couldn’t deny, though, that he held his breath as Joshua rolled up the legs of his pants.

He sat down on the bank with a wince. The bandages did go all the way up, but they started at his feet and so, Joshua began to unwind them, carefully. Painfully. He hissed in repressed agony as his skin was slowly bared, up to the knee, whereupon he stopped and knotted the freed bandage around his legs to keep it out of the way. O’Hara’s mouth went dry.

The scars were… horrific. Similar and yet very different from the courier’s own, O’Hara’s, all greens and grays; Joshua’s, reds and pinks. O’Hara still had a few strands of wiry, red hair clinging with determination to his leathery flesh, while Joshua’s lower legs were hairless – smoothed by flame.

What truly set them apart were their origins. O’Hara’s had been impersonal – a body corrupted by a catastrophic, global event. Joshua’s had been maliciously caused by one man’s orders. O’Hara was surprised at how angry he was at the sight of them. It wasn’t right. No one ought to do such a thing to another living creature. It was… evil.

Joshua’s eyes were slits when he placed first one foot, and then the other, into the chilly water. His breathing was rapid and shallow.

“It’s not working –” he said, and sounded almost like a child, frightened and hurt. O’Hara swam in close and hopped up onto the bank unthinkingly, sitting beside him.

“It’s always a painful at first. It’s a shock to your body. You have to give it a moment.”

Joshua nodded and looked over, seemingly for a distraction. He found one.

That even a man as battle-hardened and brutal as Joshua Graham flinched at the sight of his anatomy made O’Hara shudder with shame. He shielded himself with his hands.

“It’s not… it was bigger than this,” he said, and felt stupid, clinging to such an absurd fact for pride and comfort. “Half of it fell off…” (Another flinch.) “…f-fell off after I turned.”

“Does it still… can you… urinate?” Joshua asked, his voice hoarse and horrified.

“With a little improvisation. I wouldn’t have been able to survive if I couldn’t.”

“And… does _it hurt?”_

O’Hara nodded.

“Everything hurts.”

Joshua made a soft noise of agreement at that. A lengthy silence followed, broken only by the distant sounds of animals calling, and the water-noises of the falls and the pools, echoing off the stone.

“I was… similarly changed,” he said, his voice barely audible. O’Hara raised what was left of his eyebrows.

“The fire… fused my...” Joshua shut his eyes, shuddering as he spoke. “It fused my genitals to my body. At an angle, as would be expected. I always kept to the left…”

O’Hara stared down at his knee, resting next to Joshua’s.

“That must have been terrible,” he murmured. “Does it still bring you pain?”

Joshua shook his head.

“No more than the rest of me, except when I get…” he trailed off, unwilling to say the word. It took O’Hara a minute to realize what he meant.

“Oh,” he said in reply. He searched desperately for something to say.

“My father… he used to tell me stories about the saints,” the ghoul ventured. “Got me interested at a young age. One of his favorites was the martyrdom of St. Lawrence of Rome.”

O’Hara took Joshua’s silence as proof he was listening.

“The story goes that he was asked by an official of Rome to bring forth the treasures of the Church else it be seized, with the assumption being, of course, that he’d produce monetary wealth. What he did, however, was bring forth the sick, the destitute, and reveal them as the Church’s real treasures. This made the official angry, and he ordered that St. Lawrence be burned alive – slowly roasted, to be specific. The legend has it that he was already burning with a love-fire for God, which kept his mind from his pain, and that, at the height of his agony, he joked that it was time to turn him over, as he was ‘done’ on that side.”

O’Hara paused.

“Somehow I thought that’d be comforting,” he said. “Though now, I’m not sure why.”

“You Catholics certainly have a lot of morbid elements to your worship,” Joshua replied. “It’s a wonder you don’t find it discouraging.”

“Oh, it’s quite comforting, I find. I’ve always liked the idea that faith could help you transcend horrible circumstances.”

“And has it? Helped you?”

“Well. Yes. I wouldn’t got as far to say ‘flip me over, I’m done,’ but I think it did a lot for me.”

O’Hara fell silent. He kicked his legs in the water, creating ripples.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about faith,” he said. “About you. I just… I can’t imagine a loving God would want people to be enemies. In the old world, you and I might’ve been. So many millennia of fighting and war and for what? Where has it gotten any of us? Look around at the world that we live in - look at me - at my flesh! I'm an abomination, a personification of all that's wrong with mankind.”

“You’re quite the pacifist.”

“I suppose I am, yes. I’m too tired of destruction to be anything else. Don’t you ever feel that way? Exhausted by man’s capacity to hate?”

Joshua mulled the point over.

“I feel as though it’s inevitable,” he said finally, “but I don’t feel that it’s good.”

“I’ve lived for so much longer than any human and I’ve come to the same conclusion. I hope I’m wrong – I pray I am. The thought of inevitable war… I hope something comes along and kills me if it comes to pass again – I won’t be able to cope with it. Perhaps that’s morbid, but it gives me hope. The Saints survived all sorts of hardships. Maybe one day there will be a ghoul saint – for I can’t help but think our race has suffered far too long. Ours... and yours.”

“In that, I think we can agree.”

The conversation was reassuring, in spite of its somewhat dreary material. O’Hara said so in as many words.

“How’re the legs?” he added. Joshua paused, looking down at them. He’d been matching O’Hara’s gentle motions kick for kick.

“I... didn’t notice,” he admitted. “Well done, Courier. You’ve surprised me once again.”

“I should like to do so, always,” O’Hara replied, and cringed at his own readiness to please.

“We didn’t talk of your sins,” Joshua noted.

“No, we didn’t. Nor yours.”

O’Hara nearly jumped out of his skin when Joshua’s bandaged hand gripped his shoulder.

“We shall have to speak again, then.”

O’Hara dared to place his hand over Joshua’s own, which twitched beneath his fingers.

“I’d be delighted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi: just in case it's unclear, the thing Joshua is unwilling to say is that his dick hurts when he gets boners


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joshua graham = the king of trust issues

* * *

The next morning, the courier and Waking Cloud set out for Morning Flower Cave. Her reluctance set O’Hara on edge, and when she said they shouldn’t enter, he was inclined to agree.

Suppressing his fear, he tried very much to be like the brave adventurers he’d read books about as a child.

“If you’d rather guard the door, that’s perfectly understandable,” he said. “I gave Daniel my word… and by association, Joshua.”

Waking Cloud narrowed her eyes.

“You are very fond of the Burned Man,” she said. “Almost looks like you plan to take him as a husband.”

O’Hara spluttered.

“I – that is to say – I couldn’t possibly –”

“I can save you the heart ache. The Burned Man has taken no lover since he has been here. He shows no interest.”

O’Hara nodded.

“I know.”

He supposed his sadness showed on his face for a moment, because Waking Cloud put her hand to his cheek in sympathy.

“Please don’t’ tell him,” he murmured. “It may not matter, if I don’t survive this cave.”

A smile played on the woman’s face.

“You will survive.”

“Thank you for the faith in my ability –”

“Not in you. In myself.”

He grinned at that and moved forward with new purpose, Waking Cloud following behind.

-

Joshua was deep in thought when the Sorrows watch announced the return of Waking Cloud and the courier. He and Daniel made their way to the entrance of the Narrows in time to see O’Hara wading towards them, holding a cowboy hat upside-down above his head. The ghoul’s face lit up at the sight of the Burned Man and he ran the rest of the way to shore, water sloshing loudly with every step.

“What’s all this?” he asked, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. O’Hara responded by pulling something out of the hat, which he tossed to Daniel.

“That,” he said, “is for you. The holotape seems to be in good working order.”

“Thank you,” Daniel replied, somewhat flustered by the display of such exuberant good humor. O’Hara then turned to Joshua and, to his surprise, deposited the hat on his bandaged head.

“And this is for you,” he grinned. “I was able to repair it so it’s nearly good as new.”

“A hat’s a little redundant, don’t you think?” Joshua replied immediately, and cursed himself for sounding so ungrateful. O’Hara merely laughed.

“I thought it’d look good on you. And it does. You look much more cheerful already.”

He then turned his attention to Waking Cloud.

“It’s thanks to you, Waking Cloud, that I made it out of there with all my limbs intact, and wasn’t killed by a spore plant. For that, I thank you.”

She nodded.

“I accept your thanks.”

With all that over and done with, O’Hara announced he would retire for a rarely needed nap, and left in the direction of the nearest shelter.

Joshua touched the brim of the hat.

“Keep it on,” Waking Cloud said, walking past him. “I like it.”

Daniel couldn’t help but smile.

“It does suit you, you know.”

Joshua gave the younger man what he hoped was a disapproving look, and then stalked off along the shore, trudging forward until he came to O’Hara’s swimming spot, which now stood isolated and empty. He sat, cross-legged, on the bank, and took the hat off, turning it over in his hands.

O’Hara had done a good job with it – you could barely tell where it had needed mending. He’d found some dark blue cloth to be the hatband, and tucked into it was a freshly picked Broc flower. Joshua removed it and held it up to the light. The sun caught the petals and made them look like flame.

Out of all the strange things Joshua had seen come out of the wasteland, O’Hara was the strangest. He was a mess of contradictions, unusually tall, unusually friendly. If he were anyone else, it’d come off as unnerving, but he somehow could put anyone at ease. He was by far the most likeable ghoul that Joshua had ever met, but he was rapidly becoming one of the most likeable people, full-stop, sunhat, suspenders, ridiculous music and all.

This worried Joshua. He had a very complicated history with friendship, but he did not have a great deal of love for it. Edward _– Caesar –_ had seen to that.

At any rate, the courier would be leaving, once the business with the White Legs had been sorted. Joshua had responsibilities here – he couldn’t leave everything to go trailing after a ghoul who probably had his own obligations. O’Hara seemed the charismatic type – the type to make anyone who talked to him feel like a friend. In Joshua’s experience, people like that had enough acquaintanceships to move from place to place, breaking promises and hearts along the way.

He found himself crumpling the flower before he knew what he was doing – grinding it to mush between his fingers. It stained his bandages that same, flaming color. He grit his teeth with anger and threw the thing into the water.

Why did it matter, what O’Hara said? He was naïve, an innocent; he wanted the White Legs to get away with their crimes. Did his concept of faith have room to forgive even a man like Caesar? Who was this courier to swoop in and question Joshua’s actions – to call his plan unrighteous?

The answer, of course, was that it did not matter. O’Hara’s opinions – and that was all they were – were surely being sent to test him – to weaken his resolve.

In that moment, Joshua knew with certainty that he had to distance himself from the courier. The bonds of trust between them were still new – the pain would pass quickly. He could not allow O’Hara to stand in the way of his revenge.

He stood and made his way back to camp. He left the hat on the shore.

The waters of the Narrows would offer all the cover he needed to return to the Dead Horses Camp. He was their acting war-chief, after all. He didn’t have the luxury to lounge around playing with flowers and beads and other foolishness – unlike some.

He readied his pistol, packed a bag, and, in the company of two Dead Horses heading home, set off for the camp, and Angel Cave.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologize for the long delay in an update. Life has been ridiculous with me back at uni full time and dealing with personal shit. But I am back now. :B
> 
> I have missed O'Hara so much. AO3 user Tonnerre, thank you for the comments. It means the world and really reminded me how much I loved writing this fic.
> 
> Since writing this fic, I've done a lot more to learn about my faith in the guise of research and have had a great time thus far. I hope to continue in the same vein.
> 
> The song referenced is 'Sing of Mary, pure and lowly' which is from the late 1930s, I believe, so O'Hara would know it. Also, I apologize for any goofs - I am writing this when I am exhausted and rusty. But I hope it's at least readable. #cripplingselfdoubt

* * *

On some level, O’Hara had expected that Joshua would leave the safety of the camp and seek out war. Still his latest scouting mission was unexpected, and the ghoul’s chest tightened at the sight of the hat, cast aside. He gathered it up and kept it for his friend’s return.

“He will be back,” O’Hara assured himself, scarred hands working repetitiously as he whittled away at a branch he’d found. It kept his mind from wandering, from worrying. The tribe gave him space and a small patch of otherwise useless land for his ‘art’ as they called it. Kneeling on the dusty ground, the sun warm on his back even through his Old-World button-down, O’Hara was grateful.

Even as a boy, he made things when he was frightened. Drawings, model ships, little paper planes… it was in his nature to keep busy. The War was closer to the forefront of his thoughts than he liked – Joshua had opened old wounds. O’Hara scarcely knew what he was doing before he’d cut the top off a hollow log and found himself building daily.

The shrine came together slowly. Bit by bit, he decorated it with smooth river stones and crudely carved motifs. He was no trained carpenter, but he did his best. The branch was the last piece. He’d carved it slowly, laboriously, not daring to make any mistakes. Sure enough, at last, the branch was transformed into a serene woman, hands folded, eyes cast down in reverence and humility. Waking Cloud introduced O’Hara to the natural pigments available in the desert, and soon, the icon was lovingly painted. Chalk white for the Blessed Virgin’s face, the faintest hint of red upon her cheeks and lips. Her robe was a faded blue handkerchief that O’Hara had picked up in his travels out of habit, forgetting, at the time, that he no longer had a nose.

The former seminarian worked two weeks on his Marian shrine, and when it was done, he covered the ground around it with fresh flowers, and laid more blossoms at her feet.

He prayed the Rosary there, with Her before him, prayed for Joshua, and for all the many dead. He talked to her when he laboured with other tasks – skinning and boning fish a few feet away, closer to the river, or stripping the bark off of twigs. He would make a cross for Joshua, for his return, the old ghoul decided.

He sang when he was not speaking, or praying, and it was a sound that initially set the tribe on edge – the rasping hoarseness of a ghoulish voice croaking away was far from pleasant. Still, O’Hara helped them with chores, and made himself scarce, and no one could honestly begrudge him the simple pleasure.

When at last the Burned Man returned, it was to find Waking Cloud fishing and humming to herself. The song was unfamiliar, and incongruous. She rose when Joshua approached, and scowled at him.

“A cowardly thing, to turn and run.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No matter. Come, see what has been made in your absence.”

The warrior led the Mormon to the shrine. Upon the rock-face, words were painted – words, Waking Cloud explained, to the song that had been sung almost constantly since Joshua had left.

_Glory be to God the Father;_

_Glory be to God the Son;_

_Glory be to God the Spirit;_

_Glory to the Three in One._

_From the heart of blessed Mary,_

_From all saints the song ascends,_

_And the Church the strain re-echoes_

_Unto earth's remotest ends._

“Your courier's sung nothing else since you’ve gone. Is Mary one of his gods, then?”

Joshua managed to shake his head, eyes fixed on the shrine.

“No… no it’s the same Mary I told you about… he made all this?”

She shrugged.

“He’s been busy.”

It was intricate, beautiful in its simplicity. Joshua knew, vaguely, of the attachments Catholics had to Mary – expected it far exceed his own, though he couldn’t be sure (so much of what he knew was insufficient, where O'Hara was concerned. Too much, far too much.) What he was sure of was that this amount of detail, this precision, would have been excruciating someone in the ghoul’s condition- in his own condition.

“He worked out here, kneeling in the sun? Why? What’s its purpose?”

“I thought you of all people would know that,” came a dry crackling voice, and Joshua startled and looked ‘round. O’Hara’s face was unreadable. His good eye was damp and his mouth was a peeling slit."You've returned."

“I had to leave,” Joshua spluttered, uncharacteristically off his guard. “War business – I was –”

“Hush,” the ghoul murmured, stepping forward. “It is done now. Let us leave it in God’s hands for the time being. Now, you’re not maimed, not injured?”

Joshua managed to shake his head. O’Hara nodded. With his hat off, his balding head looked like the cratered surface of the moon had sprouted wiry ginger shrubs.

“Thanks be to God,” the courier breathed, his stare uncomfortably intense.

Sensing the strange tension that arose between the men, Waking Cloud cleared her throat.

“Come, Joshua. You must eat,” she insisted. Joshua nodded, and turned to leave. He paused.

“Join me?”

O’Hara’s mutilated tissue burned with the phantom sensation of blushing.

“I’m afraid I already ate.”

Joshua nodded.

“Right.”

“You can come and swim with me later, though,” O’Hara blurted out, and then winced and added, “if – if you like.”

Joshua slowly bobbed his head once in confirmation.

“Right,” he said. “Right, we’ll just… yes. This evening.”

“Right,” O’Hara echoed.

The Burned Man left with Waking Cloud and O’Hara turned to look at the Holy Mother in anguish. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she looked amused at his expense.

“Too much time in this hot sun, I’m sure,” he mumbled, but crossed himself just to be safe, and headed into the shade to wait.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awkward boners, ahoy!
> 
> no but in all seriousness, i'm finally able to write more often, as i'm done with this term of school, (straight A average, yeah!) but am also under the weather so that means i'm not outside. i'm stuck inside, and the easiest way to pass the time is to write. so here we are.
> 
> also, re: Pap- Catholics: Joshua corrects himself from saying Papists, because he's trying to make a show of being accepting. bless him.

* * *

The water was cool, calming, and by now, familiar. O’Hara skipped flat stones across the shimmering surface as the sun sunk low in the sky. It was nearly dark when Joshua finally appeared, hesitant and almost sheepish.

“I waited for you,” O’Hara said, to break the silence. He smiled wide and began to strip down to his undershirt and briefs. He hesitated, then, and Joshua sensed the unspoken question.

“No doubt the water would soothe your skin better if it were bare. It’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

O’Hara nodded, pitted cheeks hot. He yanked the rest of the clothes off quickly, and slid into the relative camouflage of the water.

It knocked the wind out of him, but it soothed the pain, too. The ghoul let out a soft prayer of thanks at the sensation. Then he turned, and nearly yelped in shock.

Joshua had removed his shirt and was just stepping out of his trousers. Beneath them, the Burned Man was a white expanse of bandages. No, O’Hara realized. Not just bandages.

O’Hara had little knowledge of Mormon customs of dress, but a faint memory – a quip told to him by a fellow seminarian – made him realize what it was he must be seeing.

“That’s your…” he began, and then fell silent when Joshua looked up sharply. Those piercing eyes looked… flustered.

“… my temple garment… yes. We don’t – it’s not something you speak about.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize.”

O’Hara sounded so sincere that Joshua relaxed a bit.

“It’s… alright.”

O’Hara thought he ought to look away, but he couldn’t. The garment fascinated him, mainly due to the reverence and care Joshua showed it as he slowly and painstakingly undressed.

“Is it sacred?”

Joshua nodded.

“It is very private. It’s not to be shown... it’s not normally… were we not swimming together you would not see it.”

O’Hara had never seen the Burned Man so agitated. Brain finally catching up with him, the courier lowered his eyes.

“It is not uncommon for people to misunderstand,” Joshua said. “To make jokes.”

“I know,” O’Hara responded. “I’ll admit to having laughed at one or two in my younger years. Isn’t it strange, that men of faith should attack each other so? I find it sad. Did you ever joke?”

“About Pap– Catholics? No. Honestly, I thought you’d all died out before I met you.”

O’Hara chuckled, not because he found it funny, but because it distracted him from the potential grain of truth in that statement.

“We have sacred… well, not garments - we have those too, for outer use - but items... worn close to the skin.”

The rustling of fabric was maddening. O’Hara wished he hadn’t looked away, but was glad he had.

“Oh?”

Joshua’s voice held a note of genuine curiosity.

“Mm. Scapulars. Not everyone wears them, mind you, but some do. It’s not so private as yours, but nonetheless… there’s different types, with different meanings, in different colours. Outside of monastic orders, they can be worn by laypeople, under their outer clothing. They are bands, with squares on either end, with passages from Scripture, or devotional artwork. They hang like this.”

O’Hara mimed the position of a scapular to demonstrate.

“And did you wear one?”

“I did – but it disintegrated about a hundred years ago.”

Joshua chuckled softly.

“I forget, you are an old man.”

“I don’t,” O’Hara laughed. “Creaky as I am.”

Joshua approached the water and O’Hara stared at the nearest rock face, heart racing. He tread water anxiously, chewing his lower lip.

“Look at me, O’Hara.”

The ghoul froze for a moment, then recovered himself. He slowly turned, unsure of what he’d find, and then gasped in spite of himself. Joshua had revealed his face.

What a face it was. Scarred almost beyond recognition. But for his colouring, he could’ve been a ghoul for all that had survived. The skin was smoothed by heat and looked as though it had melted, then cooled in its liquid state, like lava turned to blobby mounds of stone. His lips were flayed lines, his nose a damp hole, and his eyes were blazing with fire.

All coherent speech died on O’Hara’s limp tongue. He simply stared until he felt his ruined phallus give a rare, pained twitch. He shut his eyes, then, deeply ashamed.

“I am horrifying even to you?”

The words were so soft that O’Hara nearly missed them. He blinked and shook his head forcefully.

“No, Joshua you’re… I have never seen the face of so strong a man. I’m humbled.”

It wasn’t all he wanted to say, not really, but it was all he dared. Joshua managed a stiff nod.

“I… I should not have left. Not in the way I did. It was cruel of me.”

The admission was grudging, but it warmed O’Hara all the same.

“You are forgiven, always. I am just so happy to see you safe again.”

The air felt thick. O’Hara felt another pang in his loins and turned away, glad that it was now too dark to see beneath the surface of the water. He had not felt temptation so acutely since his youth and it both thrilled and terrified him that he still could.

“You’re right, you know. About the water. It does help with the pain.”

Joshua’s words were an olive branch, extend to him, and O’Hara longed to take it. His throat worked futilely. He couldn’t speak.

He could feel the Burned Man retreating into himself – could feel the void widening between them. _Say something, Ken, say anything!_

“Were you ever married?”

The words came out in a rush, and O’Hara immediately wished to take them back. Joshua stilled behind him for a moment.

“No,” he said finally. Then, “nor were you.”

“Of course not,” O’Hara nodded. “Was there ever…”

“A… person of interest?”

The ghoul nodded again and, no longer able to stand the feeling of Joshua’s eyes boring into the back of his head, turned to face him. This time, he forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on Joshua’s visage.

“No. No one… particular. And… for you?”

Joshua’s words hung in the air, almost shivering with uncertainty. They were both out of their depth.

“No,” O’Hara admitted. “When I joined the seminary, my virtue was pure as the driven snow. I mean… I kissed a girl once. A classmate. She was very, um, obliging, shall we say? But it never progressed beyond that. I think it might have, if I’d pushed for it, but it never stuck me as wise.”

Joshua’s eyes were mesmerizing and completely unreadable.

“Indeed,” he said. He looked tense – almost pained.

“Did you ever…?”

By now, the throb in O’Hara’s gut was a dull, pounding feeling. He swallowed hard, throat tight and dry.

“Nearly once. In a sense.”

“In a sense?”

Joshua shut his eyes and shuddered.

“Like you… there was a girl. She was obliging. She kissed me and I…”

O’Hara waited, breath held, heart fluttering faster than it ever had in his life.

“Spilled my seed. In my trousers.”

Joshua looked agonized at having said it, and his next words confirmed as much.

“That is not something I’ve told anyone before, outside of church officials.”

O’Hara nodded, and unthinkingly placed a hand on Joshua’s shoulder, heedless of his burns.

“You are forgiven, I am sure. It was an accident.”

“It was a sin.”

“But you repented?” O’Hara pressed, and Joshua nodded. The ghoul smiled as reassuringly as he could.

“Then I am sure God has forgiven you for that.”

They floated in silence for a while, before Joshua cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Your hand.”

“Oh!”

O’Hara removed it immediately, and thought he might die of embarrassment.

“I have to go,” Joshua stated. O’Hara nodded.

“I should go as well. I’ve been saying a Novena…”

Both men turned their backs on one another. O’Hara wondered if Joshua was doing so out of a desire for personal privacy, or because he suspected he’d see the ghoul’s deformed shaft bobbing grotesquely upwards. Either way, O’Hara was privately agonized, and he suspected Joshua was as well.

It took Joshua much longer to dry off and dress, but O’Hara did not move once in that time. Only when Joshua announced he was heading for the cave did the ghoul relax and turn around, and bid the man goodnight.

Seeing him, wrapped up entirely again, was strange. The entire night was strange, if O’Hara was being honest, and more than a little frightening. He wondered if he ought to shake Joshua’s hand, but decided against it.

“So. Have good dreams, then,” O’Hara called after the retreating form of his friend. Joshua paused, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Likewise.”

O’Hara waited until the war leader was gone, and sank down onto the bank. He still ached with residual heat, but he did not dare touch himself. He sat still until he could stand it no longer, and then rose and paced around the camp. He walked for the better part of an hour before taking up his rosary in prayer, kneeling beside his shrine. He prayed until his eyelids began to droop, and the next thing he knew, it was morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a minor addition to a few lines just to account for Joshua's repentance, since he'd have had to confess to the first kiss he had (and the awkward orgasm) if he was ever to be a missionary, as, apparently, one cannot be a missionary if one had premarital sex (which, ultimately he did not have - he just feels guilty as it was a near-miss and he could've wound up in big trouble if things had gone further.) I think?? I don't understand exactly how such a confession would occur but I presume that, like in a Catholic case, it would be between a church official and the sinner in question. only we have the sacrament of confession and I am not sure how Mormons go about it. Still I didn't want to leave that unaccounted for, since it would've been something he'd have had to have coped with and discussed/repented for. I guess. (I hope? I could be wrong in which case I'm sorry - I'm too Catholic to know these things inherently - I have to look them all up. if anyone can explain it to me in more detail, feel free - I'm a noob at researching other religious practices than my own lol.)


	9. O'Hara - Illustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a proper chapter, but rather my drawing of pre and post war O'Hara. ugh drawing ghouls is RIDICULOUSLY HARD. But yeah. Have some cute, wholesome, young!Kennedy and some old, leathery, radioactive!Kennedy.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't mess with yao guai, bruh

* * *

All hope that O’Hara’s temptation would be gone with the morning was dashed when he awoke. His skin still tingled. The heat had not abated completely, and though it was more muted now, its presence disturbed the ghoul. He packed a bag with some food and his observation book, and set off on his own.

Primarily, the courier was looking for a fine bit of desert wood that he could whittle. He hadn’t given up on his idea of presenting Joshua with a crucifix to display in his cave, and he hadn’t found anything satisfactory in-camp. The walk, however, served another purpose. Climbing over the riverbanks, hoisting himself over boulders and up rock walls, provided an outlet for O’Hara’s energy without giving in to lust.

He found a decent branch of a hardy tree, and used it as a walking stick. Wood acquired, he supposed he could’ve turned back, but the walk was doing him a world of good, so on he went.

The courier stopped on an outcropping overlooking the river, near a large cave, and sat down, legs dangling off the edge. He tuned into the Mysterious Broadcast and removed his simple meal of coffee and a somewhat overripe jalapeno from his bag.

It was a beautiful day. O’Hara had been in Utah for enough time to have grown used to the landscape, but it still inspired him. The terrain reminded him of a book he’d owned as a child. His mother read it to him every Christmas, following the story of the Nativity. The art was decidedly Western, and very much of its time, but even still, the sandy expanse of Bethlehem had seemed incredibly exotic. O’Hara had never made it to the Holy Land, and now he never would, but he had looked at photographs, and it was clear that the artist of the book had never left America, for his illustration resembled the canyons of Utah far more than it did Jerusalem. Perhaps that was the reason that O’Hara felt so comfortable in this desert heat.

O’Hara sipped his black coffee pensively, drumming his heels on the rock. He bit into the jalapeno and relished in the pang of spice on his tongue. Radiation had damaged his sense of taste – the loss of his nose only worsened it. He took pleasure in eating the few things he could still fully enjoy.

The impromptu picnic reminded O’Hara of being a boy, out with his family at the beach, eating hotdogs and playing in the sand. He hadn’t seen the sea in over a century. He missed his home keenly.

“Still,” he murmured to himself, “no use to dwell. Won’t do you any good at all.”

O’Hara rose with a groan and a cracking of joints, and stretched, looking out over the land. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with crisp, desert air.

A sudden noise behind him made him start. The courier turned, to see, of all things, a very, very young yao guai tottering out of the cave mouth on shaky legs. It had to be a day old at most – the proportions cartoonish and awkward in that way of all infant creatures. It lifted its massive head in his direction, tripping slightly over its own paws, and made a pitiful noise.

 _Is it alone?_ O’Hara mused, concerned. _Where is its mother?_

The answer came in a moment, when a heavier gait followed the baby outside. O’Hara swallowed, holding his stick before him, like a shield.

The mother was massive, and her eyes, meeting his, were cold and dark. In that moment, O’Hara was very, very frightened.

What to do? Where to go? Any safe escape was blocked by the advancing matriarch who now growled low in her throat. If O’Hara remained, he did not doubt he would die upon the rock-face.

There was only one route that offered any hope at all.

O’Hara whispered a quick, urgent prayer, and threw himself over the edge off the outcropping towards the earth below.

He landed badly. He knew immediately from the twinge in his ankle that he had, at the very least, a severe sprain. There was no time to think about it, no time to rest or catch his breath. O’Hara turned the radio on his PipBoy off, and stuck the end of the branch under his arm like a crutch. He hopped along to the river, knowing he could swim faster than he could walk, and slid into the water.

It was slow progress. He couldn’t kick with his injured leg, so he floated, limp, and dragged his way along with the stick as a sort of primitive climbing tool. By the time he reached the camp, it was nightfall, and he was exhausted. His ears were ringing – a side-effect of the bullet he received outside Goodsprings. They were always sure to act up when he was close to succumbing to his wounds.

One of the tribesmen found him, barely conscious and floating in the shallows. There was a commotion, but it seemed far away. O’Hara just wanted to sleep.

The face of the Burned Man hovered above him, speaking words the ghoul could not hear over the tinnitus that plagued him.

No. Sleep was not the answer. Not yet, when death was so close.

Grimacing, O’Hara forced himself into a sitting position, forced himself to cut through the haze and the weariness enough to grip Joshua’s shoulder, for support and reassurance.

“I’ve survived being shot in the head,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Takes more than a fall to kill me.”

“What happened?”

Waking Cloud spoke from somewhere to his left and O’Hara winced as he turned to face her.

“Blundered into a yao guai who didn’t take kindly to me being near her cub.”

Waking Cloud paled.

“You’re lucky to be alive, unarmed as you were. Your God favors you.”

O’Hara managed a small smile at that, but it did not last for long.

“Drat. Just realized I left my pack near that cave. It had my field notes in it – my journal.”

“We’ll get it back for you,” Joshua said quickly, and looked to Waking Cloud for confirmation.

“No, no, don’t risk your lives on its account.”

“You forget,” Waking Cloud interjected, “we know the yao guai. We share this land with them. We hunt them.”

Worry creased O’Hara’s features.

“Not a mother. Surely not a mother, with a cub. It’s barely walking yet – it will die without her.”

Joshua snorted in response to the sentimentality, but Waking Cloud shook her head.

“Soon, she will take her baby out to hunt. When she’s gone, the den is unguarded, and your pack can be retrieved. It has been some time since we’ve had a good hunt. War has cast darkness over our people. We will not kill the mother, or her little one, but we will come back with game.”

O’Hara sank against Joshua even as he thanked the tribeswoman who rose to tell the others of her plan. Joshua steadied the courier and called for him to be brought into the safety of the cave, before the fire, where he might dry out and have his leg seen to.

“I really am sorry,” O’Hara called as he was helped to the hastily prepared bed. “All this bother. I was only trying to –”

“Yes?”

“The stick – the one I arrived with. I wanted to fashion you a crucifix as a gift. Something to adorn your cave wall. My skill with a blade is improving - I think I could about mange it now. Alas the wood’s waterlogged thanks to my stupidity, I’m afraid.”

“It will dry,” the Mormon countered. “In time. Let me look at your ankle.”

O’Hara let the Burned Man remove his shoe and bare his swollen joint.

“It doesn’t look broken,” he murmured. O’Hara nodded.

“Didn’t take you for a medical man.”

“One has to learn the basics to survive out here,” Joshua responded. “I will get Waking Cloud to prepare you something in the morning.”

“She won’t be hunting?”

“She is more fitted to the role of nursemaid than I. I will retrieve your pack for you, and supervise the hunt. It will be another opportunity to track the movements of the White Legs –”

“I am hardly a pregnant woman needing help in birthing. And I don’t approve of you using me in your war games.”

Joshua paused, and O’Hara immediately groaned.  
“I am a worn out old ghoul,” he rasped. “And I’m afraid it has left me as rather poor company.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkled warmly.

“I forgive you.”

“Thank Heaven for that,” O’Hara said with a wheezy laugh.

The fire was warm and comforting on a primal level. The courier relaxed as the heat from Joshua’s bandaged hands soaked into his river-chilled flesh, as he gently checked the sprain for further damage. The Burned Man spoke again, but the ghoul did not hear him. He finally allowed himself to sink into a deep, painless sleep, and was, despite his injury, calm and content.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some self!doubt-y O'Hara struggling with concepts of sexual identity and religious observance  
> and some Waking Cloud because I freaking love Waking Cloud. she's awesome.

* * *

O’Hara was woken by the sound of strange but pleasant singing. He blinked with his good eye and saw Waking Cloud squatting beside him, mixing something in a small bowl.

“Daturana,” she explained. “For the pain.”

“Thank you,” O’Hara yawned, propping himself up on his elbows. “So the hunting party has left, then?”

“More of a scouting party, now Joshua is involved,” Waking Cloud replied. The steady sound of scraping from the stick she used to stir the concoction was soothing. _Thunk. Thunk. Swish. Thunk. Thunk. Swish._

“You are fond of him,” she mused. “As I thought. It showed on your face yesterday.”

O’Hara shrugged.

“No sense denying it then. I won’t trouble him with it.”

Waking Cloud clicked her tongue, frowning.

“All you Christian men seem very…” she searched for the word, “wary. Of love.”

O’Hara shook his head.

“Not of love – Christianity is entirely about love. But in the sense of… relations, there are certain… attitudes, one could say. For me, I was nearly ordained before the bombs dropped –”

Waking Cloud’s eyes widened.

“It is true then, what the others have been saying,” she murmured, impressed. “You are very old.”

“I am,” O’Hara nodded. “Though I don’t always feel it, where my thoughts are concerned. My joints, on the other hand…”

He chuckled.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I was nearly ordained. Do you have priests, in your culture?”

Waking Cloud considered.

“It is like Shamans?”

“Sort of. Not exactly. Joshua and I are of two very different branches of the Christian faith,” he explained. “In the branch I’m a part of, the Roman Catholic Church, we have a hierarchy of religious figures, both secular – meaning worldly – and religious – meaning cloistered. The cloistered members of the faith are monks and nuns – they practice their faith in environments away from the rest of the group. In that sense, it is rather like White Bird’s cave being off by itself. The secular members take on the role of priests, bishops, arch bishops, and so on, all the way up to the Pope, who is the most senior in the structure. For parish priests, as I had hoped to be, life is not separate. We interact with the community, we lead religious services with our congregation, we oversee sacraments – baptisms, marriages, funerals, and so on. It is a very busy job.”

Waking Cloud nodded.

“The thing is, for Roman Catholics, the members of the clergy – that hierarchy – take vows of celibacy. We do not marry or have children.”

Waking Cloud frowned.

“That is cruel,” she remarked. “Your God demands great sacrifice.”

O’Hara shrugged again.

“It is not so bad, really. We have a whole community to look after – they are our family, our flock. We are present for all the important moments – weddings, baptisms… we see all the milestones of life.”

“But you do not have them, yourself,” Waking Cloud interjected.

“No, we don’t.”

The midwife shook her head.

“Much of your faith confuses me,” she admitted, “though Daniel has made it clearer. There are parts, I think, I will always find strange.”

She handed him the mixture she had made.

“It is ready,” she insisted. “Drink.”

O’Hara drank.

“So, you are not a full priest,” Waking Cloud commented, once O’Hara set the bowl aside. He shook his head.

“No. The world ended before I got the chance to become one.”

She nodded, pensive.

“Why, then, have you not taken a wife, or had children? Or a husband?”

O’Hara stared at his hands.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “I haven’t met anyone. It’s more than that – even if I did… even now… I’ve spent hundreds of years without ever encountering such intimacy. I know what I know – I am too old to change. Besides, look at me. I’m hardly handsome, even by ghoulish standards.”

“You have a good soul,” Waking Cloud countered. “Many an ugly man is saved by a beautiful soul.”

Her frankness was not meant to be rudeness, so O’Hara laughed in response.

“I think Joshua cares for you,” the tribeswoman added, and O’Hara fell abruptly silent.

“He does – as a brother.”

“More than that,” she said. “He is different with you.”

O’Hara took the woman’s hand in his and looked pleadingly into her eyes.

“Please, don’t involve yourself,” he begged.

“I do not plan to,” Waking Cloud assured him. “I only say what I see, so you do not struggle alone.”

O’Hara nodded.

“Thank you. Though, if you don’t mind – I think I do need to be alone now, to pray.”

The woman left, and O’Hara crossed himself.

No specific prayer came to his lips – instead, he implored his Saviour for guidance.

 _What can I do?_ he asked, _I want to be a friend to him. I fear that, unaddressed, baseness and lust will destroy this. Lord, I am afraid to speak to him of my sin. I am more afraid to speak to him of his._

O’Hara hesitated as the image of Joshua’s blue eyes, crinkling up with mirth, gave him pause.

 _Keep him safe, Lord,_ he added, _wherever he is. Whatever may come – even if he grows to hate me. Even if he sins and destroys himself with wrath. Love him. Protect him. Give him peace. Let him sleep without dreams of his past. He is a flawed man, but he has goodness in him._

O’Hara fumbled in his pocket for his rosary and drew it out, more for comfort than anything else. Prayer was a blanket, a sense of security. With Joshua away, and his own heart tumultuous and tempted, O’Hara felt small and afraid. The yao guai had been far less frightening to him than this.

“Please let me find an answer,” he murmured. “Please tell me what to do, Lord. I cannot go forward alone.”

The daturana had numbed the pain in his ankle, but it also made him drowsy, and O’Hara found himself plagued by visions of Joshua, hurt and wounded by a yao guai, bathed in blood and screaming vengeance at his foes, and, worst of the three, looking at him with blatant disgust and the knowledge that O’Hara was tempted by his eyes and voice and very virtue. The ghoul slept fitfully, and had terrible dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a minor correction to an earlier chapter (the swimming chapter.)
> 
> Also this chapter is huge. Also I have been writing this story literally all day and I don't even care. I'm not stopping lol. 
> 
> Also, the prayer O'Hara recites is by St. Thomas Aquinas. And the quote is from The Tempest.
> 
> Also the geography of this is entirely fucked but I give up. I can't get FNV to work on my current laptop and so I'm always forgetting what is at which tribal camp. So I'm just going to roll with it. Joshua's cave should be with the Dead Horses probably but for some reason the Sorrows are hunting right there and you know what? I can't even read maps of the city where I live, so I think it's hopeless for me to get more accurate. Just excuse this epic fail on my part okay? (I swear I'll make it up to you with more story and (eventually) some smut.)
> 
> Also the fact about saints medals comes from my mom's childhood - she told my Grandmother used to do that for everyone in the house growing up.
> 
> Also there is angst out the ass in this chapter, but it will get less angsty in the future. And Joshua will (eventually) come around. These two guys are a couple of glaciers when it comes to getting down to business (so to speak.)

* * *

It was two weeks before the hunting party returned, but when they did, they were laden down with bounty. O’Hara was able to walk – slowly – out to greet them, and he could not help but smile at the sight.

The main kill was the yao guai – a huge male – which was butchered and divided on the shore according to Sorrows custom. There were other things too – fruit and a bighorner skull, the weapons looted from ambushed White Legs – but O’Hara had eyes only for the Burned Man who, he realized with a quickening pulse, had worn the cowboy hat out on his journey.

“Good day to you!” the ghoul croaked merrily, hobbling towards the Mormon as the tribespeople swarmed around the yao guai, chattering excitedly in their native tongue. Joshua responded with a curt nod that seemed, while not entirely unfriendly, uncharacteristically withdrawn.

“I found this, at an abandoned campsite. It was in a ruined vehicle – I thought you ought to have it.”

Joshua searched his pockets and produced a small, but instantly recognizable, object. O’Hara laughed aloud, startled and moved to tears.

It was a saint’s medal. Saint Michael, specifically. O’Hara held it tightly in his hand, and wiped his good eye on the rough skin of his forearm.

“Thank you,” O’Hara smiled, and tucked it into his pocket for temporary safe-keeping.

He followed the unusually silent missionary around the camp as the man performed various chores and tasks. The yao guai would provide enough meat for a sizable feast – it was a time of good fortune and cheer, and the air was electric with excitement. Still, Joshua seemed far away, as though he’d left part of himself behind during his journey.

O’Hara struggled to make conversation, talking of anything and everything he could think of.

“How was the scouting? I saw the spoils – you defeated some White Legs, then.”

He tried valiantly to keep the judgement from his tone, but it hardly mattered. Joshua didn’t seem to hear him.

“I’ve been whittling again. Your crucifix is coming along nicely.”

Again, nothing more than a ‘hmm’ in response. O’Hara felt his heart sinking. War was on the man’s mind once again, and had captured his focus. _He will be lost to it,_ the ghoul lamented. _If not in body then at least in soul._

“I was thinking,” O’Hara added, desperate for reciprocal discussion, “of something from my boyhood. I’d forgotten it until the other night, when we went for our swim.”

Joshua froze midway through loading a salvaged pistol and checking its functionality. He stared at it intently. It shook slightly in his hands.

“… yes?”

“Oh, nothing serious, only, I realized that I misspoke. Well, didn’t misspeak, exactly – I just forgot to tell you something. In terms of sacred things, worn close to the skin, you know I mentioned the scapular, which is one example, but this saint’s medal reminds me of another. When I was a child, it wasn’t uncommon for Catholics to pin or sew such medals into their undershirts, so you would carry them over your heart. Much like your sacred garments – it was a private symbol, and reminder. I think perhaps I’ll take the practice up now – sew it in.”

Joshua did not reply, but he set the gun down and folded his hands.

“Are you alright?”

O’Hara placed a hand on Joshua’s shoulder, and the Burned Man shrugged it off, shaking his head.

“Not – no. We need to have a talk, you and I. Tonight, after the feast. For now… leave me. I need some time to think.”

The courier was taken aback, but he didn’t protest. After all, Joshua had risked his life for him to retrieve his things – had given him a place to stay – had become a friend.

“Whatever troubles you, I pray you find some comfort in your faith,” he said, and left. The yao guai was big, after all, and while he was no chef, O’Hara could mix spices and cut vegetables and produce results that were, at the very least, tolerable. The tribe was glad to see his interest, and soon, O’Hara was chopping banana yuccas with a dull knife while one of the tribesmen attempted to teach him a song in Sorrows’ tongue.

The feast was a glorious affair. It reminded O’Hara of the Christmas dinner, though the taste was unlike anything he’d ever eaten in California. He simply hadn’t felt so full of warm, cooked meat since those nights he’d stumble home, bleary-eyed, from Midnight Mass, and wake to the house overflowing with cinnamon candies, oranges, and gingerbread, and all the turkey a boy could eat. The yao guai meat was tough and pungent, but it was aromatically spiced and roasted over a fire with all the love and care that his mother gave those seasonal birds in his youth – spending an entire day basting and stuffing and browning the fowl until it was succulent and gleaming in its roasting pan. The mood was similarly joyous, and singing and dancing broke out among the tribe as the night wore on. The glistening meat, the swaying of bodies in jubilant celebration, and the smiling faces of the hunters who had brought home such a kill, were all softened by the glow of many torches, and the great roasting fire where the beast had been cooked.

Full and warm, O’Hara rested his head on his chest, letting his eyelids droop. He had nearly dozed off completely when a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him awake.

“Our conversation,” Joshua breathed, close to the place his ear would be, if the ghoul still had one. “Now would be a good time. Everyone is busy – we won’t be disturbed.”

O’Hara furrowed his brow at the clipped, cool edge to Joshua’s tone, but allowed himself to be herded away from the hustle and bustle, to Joshua’s personal quarters. Once the commotion had faded to a near inaudible din, Joshua handed O’Hara a familiar bundle.

“My pack!” he exclaimed, lighting up and beaming. “Thank you, Joshua!”

He searched its contents and found that everything was as he’d left it – except for one thing. His writing book was missing. He opened his mouth to ask after it, but the Mormon spoke instead.

“I carried it on my person,” Joshua stated haltingly, retrieving it and holding it out, eyes troubled. “For safe keeping.”

Something was off in the man’s voice. The courier frowned, but nodded, taking the book and weight it in his palm.

“It is hot, sometimes deliriously so, in this desert,” the Burned Man murmured. “I thought at first… I thought perhaps the heat had done something to me – to my perception.”

O’Hara blinked, uncomprehending.

“I… read your book. Forgive me – I had been interested in your observations. About this region. I found you had observed… other things.”

Joshua couldn’t look at him. Understanding dawned slowly, and O’Hara swooned under the force of a wave of mortification. He opened the book to the page that had undoubtedly caused the affront.

He had written the Burned Man’s name there. He had sketched the lines of his figure, his profile. He had drawn detailed renderings of his eyes. None of these things, on their own, would have been enough to expose him, but all of them, together, in one place? There was no room to manoeuver.

In the bottom corner of one page, O’Hara’s unmistakable cursive formed the words not of Scripture, but of Shakespeare – a relic of the Old World that he was not even sure Joshua would recognize, but regardless, it glared up from the page.

_“Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, Did my heart fly at your service.”_

O’Hara let out an anguished noise and shielded his face with his hands. There was no response. When at last he dared peek through the gaps in his fingers, he found Joshua staring him down, and the courier couldn’t find the words to speak. In the end, it was the Burned Man who grudgingly broke the silence.

“What does this mean?”

O’Hara sighed, and in his exhaled breath, felt all the energy go out of him. He sank to the ground and sat, injured leg held out in front of him, the other tucked in close.

“You and I both know what it means,” he said softly. Then, “and I am _truly_ sorry.”

Joshua nodded. There was nothing but sincerity and regret in the ghoul’s hoarse voice. The Burned Man took a seat beside him, on the cave’s cool, stone floor. He worried the edge of his bandages, tense and uncomfortable.

“You’re fond of me.”

Never the type to hide when he’d been found out, O’Hara nodded.

“I have become so, yes.”

“From your reaction to me knowing it… I can assume this has gone beyond the bonds of brotherhood. You’ve had… inclinations.”

Joshua’s voice was accusatory, but it also had a waver in it that spoke of genuine fear. O’Hara sighed. He suddenly felt very, very old, and very tired.

“I will not act on it,” he said. “You can be certain of that. It’s not the first time in my life that I’ve been tempted, and I’ve never given in – not once. I’d never lay a finger on you without your permission – I pose no danger.”

Joshua digested this and sighed, slumping somewhat.

“It is not that which worries me,” he admitted, so softly that O’Hara had to strain to hear him. “It is that I might.”

“You might what?” the ghoul repeated, confused, and it was Joshua’s turned to look ashamed.

“Allow you.”

They sat in silence together. O’Hara’s ears had begun ringing again. He ignored it and tried to quell the desperate, hopeful swelling in his chest. _Now is not the time to lead a man astray from his convictions, O’Hara,_ the ghoul warned himself. _He needs spiritual guidance, not unbridled affection._

“Have you been tempted?” O’Hara prompted, as gently as he could. “And has it upset you?”

Joshua shot him a bewildered look.

“It doesn’t upset _you_?”

O’Hara shrugged.

“I don’t know. I’ve been around a lot longer than you – I was disillusioned by my own inherent imperfections centuries ago. I imagine it’s given you quite a shock.”

Joshua shook his head slowly.

“Not… not a shock. I am deeply, deeply disappointed.”

O’Hara waited for him to elaborate.

“Before… before I… when I was in the Legion, I was tempted then, too. I think, perhaps, it is partly why I went along with so much, in the early days. I never… succumbed. But I was changed by it – I let myself be led off course. Since the fire, I have not been burdened by such distraction, but when I was in the desert, and I retrieved your pack, I realized you could’ve been killed.”

Joshua shut his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw.

“That’s a misrepresentation,” he admitted. “It predates your encounter with the yao guai.”

O’Hara nodded.

“Our swim,” the ghoul murmured. “That’s what made it… less manageable. For me.”

“What was there to manage before that?”

“Oh, I’ve been captivated by you for a while,” the ghoul admitted. “You’re a good man – a good Christian, in spite of your faults. I admired – I still admire you.”

O’Hara placed his hand on Joshua’s own, and the man flinched violently, looking at him in alarm.

“Peace,” O’Hara soothed. “I’m not trying to compromise your virtue. Only to comfort you, and to suggest a possible solution.”

Joshua eyed him warily, but let him continue.

“I find it is always difficult to struggle, but it is more difficult to struggle alone. Tempted as we are, it is not likely that we will be able to pray for our own deliverance with clear heads, but if we prayed together, for one another, perhaps we’d stand a better chance.”

Joshua considered this.

“I pray for you, and you for me,” he echoed. “I don’t know –”

“If you think you can manage your lust by yourself you are welcome to,” O’Hara said plainly, and Joshua shuddered in discomfort. “But this is a sin like any other, and, in my experience, it helps to have friends.”

The Burned Man nodded.

“I admit, you impress me,” he confessed. “You freely admit your faults, as though it is nothing at all.”

“It’s humiliating,” O’Hara answered brightly, “but no more so for me than anyone else, and the only reason it bothers me is because of my pride, which is a sin in itself. We’re all somewhat miserable creatures, really. Humans, ghouls… animals too. Ruled by our base biological natures.”

“Faith delivers us. Repentance –”

“Absolutely. If that is what you want, and what you pursue, I am sure you will pass through this unscathed.”

Joshua frowned – O’Hara saw it in his eyes, and the barely perceptible shifting of his bandages.

“Why – do you hope for a different outcome?”

The words were barbed, but O’Hara did not begrudge him his anger. It was part of Joshua – as much a part of him as his scars, and his faith.

“I don’t know what I hope. I don’t know how I feel about it, morally. I have been alive too long – everything has muddied, with time. I certainly don’t see it as any worse than any other sin, except in the way it upsets you.” He sounded too fond, and chastised himself mentally. _Well, might as well commit to it._ “I don’t like seeing you suffer, Joshua. Any indignity is too much. This included.”

Joshua looked away.

“You make it difficult,” he replied. “You are kind to me.”

“Was your Legionnaire unkind?”

Joshua’s eyes snapped up to glare at the courier.

“Is it kind to order a man to be immolated?” he hissed sharply. Again, understanding dawned. A great deal of the Burned Man’s past suddenly made sense to the ghoul, who could not help but wince.

“I am sorry,” he admitted. “For all of it. That I have brought temptation into your life – but also that you have been shown so little kindness that any act of love is seen as inherently suspect. I do love you, Joshua, quite separately from lust. I love you because you are my brother in Christ. I would go to the ends of the earth to spare you suffering.”

Joshua scoffed.

“And if it is your presence that brings on said suffering?”

O’Hara did not hide the sadness on his face, but he nodded.

“I would go. If you want me to – I will go. I can set off as soon as my ankle is –”

“No,” Joshua interjected. “No. I won’t have you going off alone. You nearly died the last time.”

“And I suppose it would be in poor taste of me to suggest that that, too, might bring about a solution to your problem.”

O’Hara immediately regretted his poor attempt at a joke. Joshua’s eyes widened with horror.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not. I’m sorry. It was utterly unhelpful to say such a thing.”

The courier sighed and leaned back to stare up at the ceiling.

“I am tired,” he said. “I am tired, and I am lonely. I would sooner not lose my dearest friend over the question of sex.”

Joshua winced.

“There’s no question of it. It won’t happen.”

“No,” O’Hara agreed. “It’s best if it does not.”

He slapped a smile on his face and nudged Joshua gently. Affectionately.

“We’ll still be friends,” he insisted. “I mean, I will be, if you are. If you’d still have me.”

“I would,” Joshua sighed, and looked somewhat relieved. “Yes. Perhaps we ought to pray, you and I. For each other.”

“For both of us.”

O’Hara sat up again and grinned.

“Er… my way or yours?” he laughed. Joshua paused.

“Perhaps… perhaps once in each manner out loud… and then silently, afterwards.”

It was as good an idea as any.

“You first, then,” O’Hara suggested, bowing his head but keeping one eye on Joshua as he knelt and folded his arms across his chest. His voice, even vexed with anxiety at their current situation, was a deep and soothing rumble.

He prayed, primarily for guidance. For help in resisting. For personal strength for them both. O’Hara watched him, feeling a combination of tenderness and regret that made him ache keenly.

 _This is what is best,_ he reminded himself. _You’re not thinking with your head, now, O’Hara. Think of Joshua. Think of what he needs. He doesn’t need you pining after him like a lovesick woman in a torch song._

Joshua finished his prayer and unfolded his arms. O’Hara nodded at Joshua for confirmation that the man had concluded, and crossed himself, relying on an old and trusted plea.

“Dearest Jesus! I know well that every perfect gift, and above all others that of chastity, depends upon the most powerful assistance of Your Providence, and that without You a creature can do nothing. Therefore, I pray You to defend, with Your grace, chastity and purity in my soul as well as in my body. And if I have ever received through my senses any impression that could stain my chastity and purity, may You, Who are the Supreme Lord of all my powers, take it from me, that I may with an immaculate heart advance in Your love and service, offering myself chaste all the days of my life on the most pure altar of Your Divinity. Amen.”

He crossed himself again and smiled, somewhat shyly, at the man sitting beside him.

“Feel any better?”

Joshua nodded.

“It is helping. Thank you for seeing the importance of our restraint in these matters.”

“Of course. I suppose it’s best it was me, then, and not a tribeswoman who would not understand your reluctance.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

O’Hara hesitated, then inquired:

“Joshua? I was hoping I might bring up an unrelated question.”

The Burned Man inclined his head.

“By all means.”

A selfish, impulsive part of O’Hara willed himself to stop, but the ghoul spoke the words he knew would be best for them both.

“I cannot stay here forever. You know, and I know, that cannot be. I have obligations that draw me back to Nevada. I would take a guide through contested territory, and go on alone from there.”

“Yes. Well, perhaps it is fortuitous, given our present difficulty,” the Mormon said primly.

“I cannot stay if you intend to fight your war, Joshua. I cannot bear that.”

“I see.”

“I have plans… I’m going to set up a sanctuary in New Vegas, near the Strip.”

Joshua made a face.

“Why return to that cesspool of immorality?”

“Where better to do God’s work than among those who most need Him?” O’Hara countered. “It will be a grand place. I had hoped…”

“Yes?”

“I had hoped you might join me. Or – or at least visit.”

“With the Legion hiding around every corner? And my name on the lips of hundreds after my head?”

O’Hara looked away, scarred cheeks aching with an attempted blush.

“Right,” he mumbled. “Stupid thing to ask, really. I should’ve known it was a bad ide–”

“O’Hara. When I have finished here, and if you can drive the Legion away, then I will visit you. Perhaps, enough time has passed that I think it wise, I might stay, if you do clean up the Strip as you say you will.”

The courier nodded. It was all he could hope for. Still, it stung to hear Joshua agree with such finality that it was best that he go after all.

“Well, I’ll wait until my leg is mended,” he said with as sincere a smile as he could muster. “And I will pray for a swift end to all that plagues us.”

“As will I.”

Joshua’s eyes were shining, and O’Hara could’ve sworn they looked drier moments before. He felt an acute urge to kiss the bandage over Joshua’s mouth, but quelled it. Instead, he placed his fingers over his own lips, and then touched them to Joshua’s hand.

“You are dearer to me than anyone on this earth,” the courier confided. “Promise me you won’t endanger yourself any more than you have to. Body _and_ soul.”

Joshua took his hand and pressed it briefly in his own.

“If you do the same.”

O’Hara nodded, throat too tight to speak. He excused himself and left the cave, sitting off to the side of the celebrations, which had turned raucous and bawdier than Joshua would’ve liked, had he come out to look at the goings on. In the commotion, no one noticed the quiet weeping of the old ghoul in the shadows. O’Hara treasured the anonymity, and hid in plain sight for the rest of the evening, rubbing his bad eye with stiff fingers, easing the pressure in his dysfunctional tear ducts, taking comfort in the familiar stabs of pain.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so as some of you know there was a recent draft of this story with a different plot, but it wasn't working for me and I got really anxious about it and hated it. This is the actual original plot I'd hoped for, and I have decided this is much better. So this is the final version, and in my opinion, the one that is most true to the vision I set out with when I started this project. Sorry for any confusion and thanks, those of you who've been good about this. Now that this is posted, I'll delete the earlier placeholder note, and let this one suffice.
> 
> Also this has a time jump (like the other version) but it is only one year in the future, and nowhere near as drastic. So forget about the outcome of the old draft - this will go in an entirely different direction (i.e. in four years, this version would be unrecognizable to the four year time jump in the last version.)
> 
> If you didn't read the last version... don't worry about it. :) This is the final version and I won't be switching anymore.
> 
> Thanks for your readership, and patience with me. God bless you lovely folks.
> 
> (Also, have some Old Ben. I love Old Ben.)

* * *

O’Hara regretted leaving Zion almost as soon as he did it, but the sting abated once he was back on the New Vegas Strip. Clean it up, Joshua had said, and clean it up, O’Hara planned to do. It was hard work. It was lonely work. Most days, it was thankless work.

The building he made his home in was not owned by anyone in particular. It was where the NCR soup kitchen was housed, and O’Hara had, after talking things through with Elizabeth Kieran and the NCR, Julie Farkas, and the Kings, convinced all parties involved that it would be better for everyone to just let him manage the outreach independently, and save them all trouble and time.

It had been a grand idea, but it had also insured that the ghoul would be perpetually overworked, and mostly unpaid.

O’Hara had acquired a few volunteers – Arcade Gannon, who pitched in mostly out of a desire for mutually satisfactory conversation, and a man named Old Ben. O’Hara spent the day collecting donations, which Ben helped him serve at day’s end. Arcade came by twice a week and provided on-site medical consultation to anyone who needed it. Eventually, they outgrew the building proper, and expanded, putting up hospice cases at their location, and sending the rest of the desperate masses to the Old Mormon Fort to sleep in the tents there.

It was a shambling, clumsy operation, but it worked, and that’s what counted.

What little free time O’Hara had was spent repairing the building’s roof, and painting signs to advertise the place. He converted the top floor into a lady chapel, and slept on a mattress on the ground floor with the sick and the dying. One benefit to his ghoulishness was that contagions didn’t seem to affect him in the same way they did humans. As such, he was always on-hand to assist anyone who needed him, whether it be to mop their fevered brows, or to hold their hands and sit with them as they died. The courier always went to bed exhausted – too exhausted to dream. He woke each morning with the sun, and started over again.

War was a possibility, and a constant fear, but there was little time to worry when each day brought people seeking basic comforts. There was little time to think of old friends, either. O’Hara remembered everyone in his prayers – tried not to leave any names off his mental checklist – but he didn’t have entire afternoons to spend, thinking of the past.

Still, O’Hara took occasional moments to write, futilely, to his memory of Joshua Graham. He would not post the letters, and they would never be read, but they were his comfort in an otherwise lonely world. It became as much a part of his daily routine to write a few lines to the Burned Man as to say his evening prayers.

_JOSHUA,  
SAW A FLOWER YOU MIGHT’VE LIKED TODAY._

_JOSHUA,  
HOPE YOU’RE KEEPING WELL. BE SAFE._

_JOSHUA,  
TEMPTATION IS A TRICKY THING, IS IT NOT?_

_JOSHUA,  
I MISS YOU._

The messages, mundane, heartfelt, occasionally anxious, piled up. By the end of one year, he had enough to fill a small box which he kept hidden amid the rusted, broken springs of his lumpy mattress.

Most days, the melancholic longing was a dull ache, almost soothing in its familiarity. Then O’Hara would count the drop-in center’s supplies and see their rolls of stockpiled bandages, or the sky would be extraordinarily blue like Joshua’s piercing eyes, and the pain would swell until it overwhelmed him.

“Hey? You home in there?”

O’Hara blinked his good eye, realizing that a hand was waving in front of his face. He shook his head and apologized.

“I just have a lot on my mind,” he said. “Good morning, Arcade. How can I help you?”

Arcade responded by placing four stimpacks on the counter that stood between them.

“We had a surplus this month,” he explained. Then, “What’s up?”

O’Hara shrugged.

“Oh, you know. All sorts, really. Just over a month until Easter. We want to have a party, host it here. The Kings have agreed, and House hasn’t shut us down, so we should be alright with it, but it’s a lot of work.”

“Most of your clientele don’t even celebrate Easter,” Arcade pointed out. O’Hara nodded.

“I know. I just… if I can inspire some of them to entertain the idea of the Christian faith, I’ll have done some good. Even if all I do is feed some poor wanderers, I’ll have done more than if I just sat on my hands and let it pass unmarked.”

“Hey, I’m not disagreeing with the idea,” Arcade clarified. “Just making sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” O’Hara laughed. “Any doubts I had were removed the minute I started working here.”

Arcade grinned.

“That’s the spirit. Hey, are you still doing that lending thing?”

The courier furrowed his brow.

“Lending thing?”

“You know. That thing you were telling me about last time I came by.”

“Oh! You mean Lent! Yes, I’m still in that up to my eyes as well.”

“What could you even give up?” Arcade mused. “You don’t do anything to begin with.”

O’Hara shrugged.

“You don’t just have to give things up. You can do things, too. Good things. The Easter party is one of those. I’ve also been repainting the hospice room. And I’ve given up… well. Nothing I should’ve been doing to begin with, really.”

Arcade’s eyebrows rows. He leaned in, visibly intrigued.

“Such as what?”

O’Hara flapped his hands in agitation.

“Nothing special. No blaspheming, that sort of thing.”

“You don’t blaspheme.”

“Well. Other sorts of... things.”

O’Hara paused, and a look of resignation passed over his features.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about this. For some reason, this year, it has been, compared to past occasions, much, much harder to keep my…” he searched for a word, “... my libidinousness in check. Do you think I might have been exposed to something? Perhaps in my travels?”

Arcade nodded.

“It’s possible,” he deadpanned. “I mean, speaking as your doctor.”

“Yes?”

“I’d say you were exposed to a Mormon in Utah that you still write love letters to on a daily basis.”

If O’Hara could’ve blushed, he knew he’d be purple. He frowned, somewhat petulantly.

“Who told you about the letters?” he sulked.

“That’d be me, I’m afraid.”

O’Hara looked up, and his anger abated at the sight of Old Ben, struggling through the front door under the weight of a huge bag of flour.

“Gift from a neighboring farm,” he wheezed, setting it down with a _thump._ “That should keep us in biscuits for a good month, easy.”

“That’s fortuitous,” O’Hara smiled, taking in the sight. “We can have some with tonight’s meal. The stew’s all but done. Will you be by, tonight, Arcade? If only to poke fun at my expense?”

Arcade smirked.

“Can’t resist an offer like that. Seriously, though, if you’re worried, you can always drop by the Followers camp and have one of us take a look at you. We don’t exactly specialize in ghouls, but I’m sure we could figure something out.”

Old Ben nodded at both men and went to check on the stew, not wanting to intrude on a medical conversation.

“A way to… to suppress things? Is there such medicine?”

Arcade frowned.

“I won’t advocate in favor of it. It’s not healthy to suppress such things entirely. You told me before, you’re… disfigured, in the genital region. Are you in any pain?”

“No more there than anywhere else. I just thought you might be able to help… give me a shot or a tonic or something.”

“Sorry,” Arcade shrugged. “I can give you something to take the edge off the pain, but that’s it. If it becomes an issue, just let me know. Other than that… well, surely even Catholics know the old remedies to such problems.”

O’Hara chuckled, embarrassed, and herded Arcade out of the room. The truth was, he’d been slipping, lately. More so than usual. If anything, not having Joshua around had only made his temptation more acute.

“I hope he’s having an easier time of it than I am,” the courier mused, running a hand through his few strands of ginger hair. He rubbed his bad eye and groaned.

“You holding up alright?”

Old Ben ambled in and leaned against the wall, offering his friend a cigarette. O’Hara took it, and thanked him, taking some comfort in the smoke filling his mouth. He exhaled through the empty space where his nose should’ve been, sitting down and rubbing his knees.

“Feeling your age?”

O’Hara nodded and Old Ben chuckled.

“Yeah. I know the feeling. I’m sorry for telling Arcade about your letters. I didn’t think –”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” O’Hara assured him. “Just foolishness. Schoolboy foolishness, that’s what it is – all of it. I’m just dwelling on things best set aside.”

“You’re a bit hard on yourself.”

“I can take it,” O’Hara smiled, a bit wistful. “It’s good motivation. Keeps everything running smoothly.”

“Mm. Want to make some biscuits?”

O’Hara agreed and rose from his chair, rolling his sleeves up higher than usual. He washed his hands and soon was working the unbleached flour into a useable dough.

“Stew tastes good this week,” Old Ben remarked, adding a pinch of spice to the bubbling mixture. “Folks will be eating well tonight.”

“Good. I always feel a bit guilty when we have to serve them something bland or watered down,” O’Hara admitted.

“Ah, they don’t mind. At least it’s hot, and free. You can do worse in the Wasteland.”

The ghoul nodded.

“Certainly.”

They fell into an easy silence, broken only by the gentle melody playing on the radio. Radio New Vegas, this time – Old Ben’s choice. They took turns when it came to setting the dial.

As the last chords of Johnny Guitar faded away, the voice of Mr. New Vegas crackled through the speaker.

 _A strange sight has been reported by families living close in Freeside._  
_Reportedly, some kind of bandaged cowboy has been seen_  
_journeying to the city on foot. I guess if a fella wants_  
_to play the slots, there’s no sick bed in the world that can_  
_keep him from the Strip. And now, how about a little tune to_ –

O’Hara froze.

“Did you hear that?” he asked. “What did he say – b-bandaged cowboy?”

“Mm. You get all sorts coming to the city these days,” Old Ben mused, then paused. “Actually… I may even have seen that one. It’s not a sight you’d forget. Cowboy hat and bandages all over the place.”

O’Hara stared at him.

“You _saw_ him? When? _Where?”_

“Just wandering around the city. Looked a bit lost, to me – strange. I mean, if it’s gambling he’s after the casinos aren’t exactly hard to fin –”

“It’s Joshua! Ben, tell me, where did you see him exactly?”

Old Ben’s eyes widened, and a smile spread across his face. He whistled.

“Well, I’ll be. I hope you’re right – hate to see you get your hopes up for nothing. He was near the Van Graffs when I saw him last.”

O’Hara nodded, frantically wiping dough off his hands.

“Can you – I need –”

“I’ll finish the biscuits,” the old man laughed, “provided you bring your friend back here and feed him one. If he’s as pious as you claim, I’ve no doubt he’s been traumatized four times over, walking around this place.”

O’Hara ran from the premises as fast as his legs would allow. A twinge in his knee slowed him down some, but he kept limping onwards. He knew he looked a sight – covered in flour, frantic and out of breath, but he pushed himself harder when a familiar form – wearing a now familiar hat –  came into view.

“Joshua!” he shouted, and the man turned, a look of shock in his eyes. He stayed rooted to the spot as the ghoul galloped towards him, and tensed as he was grabbed in a tight hug that was painful to both parties. O’Hara loosened his grip immediately and stepped back, tracing his fingers over the bandages covering his face, his good eye wide with wonder, and filling with tears.

“You came,” he croaked, “oh, merciful Heaven, you came!”

The tears began to fall and he searched desperately for a handkerchief. Finding nothing, he wiped his eye on his arm, leaving a streak of flour on his face.

“Sorry,” he blustered. “I was making biscuits. I only just heard – come, let’s get out of the crowd now. I have something to show you.”

The ghoul led the way back to the shabby outreach building and gestured up at the hand-painted sign.

“This is your base, then?” Joshua murmured. “I was looking for something larger.”

“It’s not been easy. We need more space than we have – far more,” O’Hara conceded. “Come on, I want to show you the Lady chapel.”

“You have a chapel?” Joshua echoed as he followed the courier up a narrow set of stairs. His query was answered when he reached the landing and found himself in a small room, lined with candles. The light flickered on the Marian iconography painted on the walls, and on the humble cross and altar by the far wall. The roof, such as it was, was half-destroyed, with the large hole covered by heavy cloth.

“A temporary measure,” O’Hara explained. “We never have enough time to do everything. And it’s not much of a chapel, really, since I can’t say Mass and we haven’t found a priest yet, but we hold out hope. People still pray here – light candles, too. It’s quiet, and peaceful, and that’s a rare commodity around here.”

Back down the stairs they went, this time passing through an area crowded with mattresses, on which an old woman was currently sleeping. O’Hara shushed Joshua, a finger to his lips.

“Hospice room,” he whispered. “We give people a safe place to leave this world, if they need it. Follow me – the kitchen’s just out back.”

The kitchen, such as it was, was actually a bit of empty alley, cleared of rubble and fenced off with corrugated sheets of metal.

“This is Old Ben – one of my two greatest helpers here. I couldn’t manage without him. Ben, this is Joshua.”

O’Hara’s voice held a breathless excitement that made the old man smile.

“Welcome, Joshua. We’ve heard a lot about you. I must say, you’ve arrived just a little early – the biscuits aren’t quite ready yet. Do you think you can entertain him for a while, Ken?”

O’Hara furrowed his brow.

“But I’m needed, surely. This evening’s preparations –”

“I can handle it. Arcade will be back soon. Go. Take your friend with you. Show him the sights. Go on.”

O’Hara nodded his thanks, and led Joshua back out the way they’d come.

“We have some time until dinner is served,” O’Hara remarked. “What would you like to do?”

“Is there anything to do that doesn’t reek of sin in this place?” Joshua asked, and O’Hara nodded.

“If you know where to look. Come – I’ll take you to the Old Mormon Fort.”

Joshua perked up at that.

“It’s not run by Mormons anymore,” O’Hara elaborated hastily, “but it is run by a dear friend of mine, and his people. The Followers of the Apocalypse, they call themselves. They’re good, clever folk – they do good work for the poor and the needy around these parts. Further afield too, I’ve heard.”

He paused, and took Joshua’s hand, smiling at him fondly.

“I have, truly, missed you, these many months. Almost two years – and… has your business been concluded?”

“Yes.”

“Well… I suppose we’ll have to talk about that. Later. Tonight, perhaps. But… you’re alright? You made it here safely?”

“I did.”

Joshua lingered on the word, then gave the ghoul’s hand a nearly imperceptible squeeze.

“I… missed you too,” he admitted, and O’Hara’s heart sang with joy.

“Good. Very good. Come along – follow me. Lots of things to see,” he beamed, and turned and led the way.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and ALL the UST was had that day :P

* * *

O’Hara did his best to treat his friend to the sights, to keep him from only seeing the worst of the city. It was hard – Heaven knows, it was nearly impossible with so many scantily-clad women soliciting business, so many drunkards staggering through the streets, but he tried to temper Joshua’s anger.

“It is worse than I expected,” the Burned Man grimaced. “How can you stand this?”

“Have mercy on them,” he pleaded. “They are damaged people. Lost sheep.”

“And you think you can bring them back to the flock?”

The ghoul shrugged.

“I can try.”

Joshua’s mood improved at the Old Mormon Fort. He took in the sight of the tents, of the ministry to the sick, with interest, but it was in the building himself that he found the most value. O’Hara left him briefly to speak to Julie, and returned to find Joshua standing with one hand against the wall, tracing the wood grain with bandaged fingers. O’Hara waited, unseen, for a few minutes, giving his friend some time with his thoughts before approaching and leading him away.

 ...

The day wore on, and there was work to be done.

As usual, the dinner service seemed endless. Faces, some new, some familiar, came out of the shadows, the gutter, and the Wasteland for a bowl of hot stew. The biscuit was a welcome surprise, and O’Hara was in high spirits, to hear the sounds of hungry folks eating hearty food at the temporary tables set up outside. Old Ben and Arcade noted his good humor after the last bowl was served and it was time to wash up.

“Did something happen while I was gone?” the doctor asked. “Because you’ve been smiling and sighing all night.”

O’Hara looked up, soaked to his elbows in soapy water. He scrubbed a bit of congealed stew off a soup bowl.

“I haven’t been _sighing.”_

“You have,” Old Ben grinned. “Humming, too.”

O’Hara hung his head, shaking his head.

“Forgive me. My mind is… elsewhere.”

“Oh, I bet,” Old Ben laughed. Arcade raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, what happened? Don’t leave me out of this.”

Old Ben nodded towards the stairs, taking the bowl from the courier and drying it with a rag.

“Ken’s Mormon friend arrived today.”

Arcade gaped.

“Seriously?”

“Mm hmm. He’s upstairs right now – _settling in.”_

The old man winked. Arcade snickered and passed O’Hara another dirty dish to clean.

“Luck of the Irish, eh, O’Hara?”

“Oh, stop!” the ghoul protested, positively thrilling with embarrassment. “It’s nothing so licentious!”

“Says the man who’s mooning over –”

“– I’m hardly _mooning_ –”

“– mooning over the guy and _humming love songs under his breath!”_ the doctor cackled. O’Hara flicked dishwater in his direction.

“You’re both blowing this out of proportion,” the courier insisted, “and I certainly hope you keep your comments to yourself when he’s around. He won’t tolerate your teasing like I do.”

“So, we’re gonna meet him?” Arcade pressed. Old Ben nodded.

“I already have.”

“Why – I miss everything around here! What’s he like?”

The old man shrugged.

“Seems a bit standoffish, but I reckon that’s the city’s doing.”

“He’s had a long journey,” O’Hara interjected. “You two gossips are the last thing he needs to deal with today.”

Arcade nudged Old Ben and said, in a perfectly audible stage whisper:

“He’s _protecting him,_ now.”

“Oh! If you don’t hush, I’ll leave you the rest of these dishes to do yourself, Arcade Gannon!” the ghoul exclaimed, flustered.

“Why don’t you?” Arcade retorted, grinning. “Go on.”

The courier faltered.

“P-pardon?”

“Go spend some time with your friend,” Old Ben prompted. “He’s probably starving – bring him a biscuit and some stew.”

“I… you’re sure? We haven’t got so many dishes left – I could finish –”

“Go upstairs. Get laid,” Arcade leered, and yelped good-naturedly as another handful of water was flung his way.

“It’s Lent!” O’Hara hissed, and bolted up the stairs, a hastily assembled dinner tray balanced awkwardly in his hands.

“Go easy on the kid,” Old Ben remarked. “If he had ears, they’d be burning.”

The doctor smirked.

“With a cage that easy to rattle? He’s lucky I _stop.”_

…

O’Hara knocked on the door to the unfinished chapel to announce himself, and entered feeling strangely shy. Joshua glanced up from where he knelt, and ended his prayer, unfolding his arms and placing his hands, palm-down, on his thighs.

“Sorry to interrupt,” O’Hara murmured. “I brought you some stew.”

The ghoul crossed the room, letting the door close behind him, and sat down across from the Burned Man.

“Have you eaten?” Joshua asked. O’Hara shrugged.

“Sort of. I nibbled a biscuit while I was working.”

Joshua wordlessly broke his biscuit in two and handed one half to the courier. O’Hara nearly protested, but words failed him as the Burned Man shifted his bandages, baring his mouth so he could eat. The ghoul followed the spoon’s progress from the bowl to the Mormon’s scarred lips, and shuddered, lowering his eyes to the floor. He took a bite of his biscuit, chewing mechanically.

“How’s the stew?” he whispered, his voice unusually hoarse, even for a ghoul. If Joshua noticed, he had the good sense not to mention it. The Burned Man grunted in response, too hungry to comment.

“I’m sorry,” O’Hara mused. “I should’ve thought to feed you earlier. Not that you need me to –  I mean, you’re perfectly capable of looking after yourself, of course! I only mean… well, I’ve been rather disorganized since you’ve come. I am always busy, these days. And my head’s in the clouds today, so, really, I am sor–”

“You’re rambling.”

O’Hara fell silent and nodded. There was a tense pause as Joshua finished his meal, and moved his bandages back into place.

“Do you want to see my favourite sight in all of New Vegas?” O’Hara asked suddenly. Joshua nodded his consent, so the ghoul rose to his feet and moved to where the tarp stretched across the ruined section of wall and ceiling. He untied the heavy fabric from its moorings and pulled it sideways, like a curtain.

“I admit, this has been part of why it’s taken me so long to mend this wall,” the courier confessed. “You can see all the lights from here.”

Joshua moved to join him and sat beside him, legs extending out of the hole, into the empty air.

“It’s a city of vice and desperation,” the ghoul rasped, “but even here, there’s beauty. That’s a good metaphor for life, I think. Even in the depths of darkness, we can find evidence of God’s goodness.”

Joshua did not speak, but O’Hara sensed he was in agreement.

The ghoul was glad to sit in silence, to listen to the steady, soft sound of Joshua’s breathing. The man was lost in thought, the neon of the city reflected in the blue of his eyes. The sight was breathtaking, arresting both in its beauty and the way it made O’Hara’s gut clench with worry. The situation with the White Legs was resolved, but how? And at what cost?

_Don’t let him have more guilt to burden him. Whatever he’s done… please help him share it with me. I would help him – I would carry his burdens for him, if he’d let me. **Please,** Lord._

The courier looked away from that haunting gaze and looked down at their hands, resting, inches apart, on the floor. He held his breath, and slid his over, one inch. Two.

The fabric of Joshua’s bandages brushed his knuckles faintly and O’Hara shut his eyes against a wave of emotion that paralyzed him. He struggled to keep still, to quell the trembling that had suddenly seized him.

The hand beside him shifted, and fear and guilt crashed down on the ghoul like a heavy weight dropped from a great height. He opened his mouth to apologize, when a warm weight settled over the backs of his fingers.

He dared to look. The sight of the bandaged digits laid wordlessly over his own made him tremble again, more violently.

“Are you cold?”

Joshua’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, nearly lost in the night breeze and the distant sounds of urban ruckus. O’Hara glanced back at his face – the Burned Man was still staring out at the lights, unreadable as ever, but in that moment O’Hara knew – he _knew_ – that in the year they’d been apart, nothing had changed between them.

“No,” he breathed, finally exhaling, finally filling his lungs again. The air felt cool and clean and potent as whiskey. “No. Not cold.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cute cute cute (i really like how this chapter turned out. i'm not trying to be self-obsessed or anything. i just have a soft spot for grown men who are super awkward at romance. <3 adorbs.)
> 
> ok i will say straight up that pretty much all of O'Hara's sex-related Catholic!guilt is directly analogous to my sex-related Catholic!guilt. though thankfully i've never been told off like he is in an impending flashback. but yeah. it's a jolly little minefield to navigate, being both Catholic and queer. always exciting, lol.
> 
> (also trigger warning for a super SUPER indirect reference to sexual assault of a minor character who we will probably never hear about again (just an inpatient at the drop-in place.) It's literally one line in the first paragraph of this chapter but I don't want it to accidentally ruin someone's day/night/whenever so yeah. now you know it's coming.
> 
> and trigger warning for a more direct reference to getting spanked as a kid. which idk if that bothers everyone. i certainly got spanked as a kid and it didn't cause me any grief. but i know some folks really don't agree with it. just remember - O'Hara's experience of being parented comes out of a '40s-'50s culture that had different norms about how to punish your children.)
> 
> enjoy folks. :)

* * *

The hospice room had room for four mattresses and could reasonably accommodate eight adults. Not everyone staying there came to die. The old woman occupant was slowly succumbing to what the Followers diagnosed as probably stomach cancer, and was kept comfortable, though unconscious, on a steady supply of chems administered by Arcade. In addition to her, the room held a drunkard of middling years; a young woman who’d been found wandering the city, clothes in disarray, who still had not spoken a word, and who shook like a leaf whenever male NCR soldiers were in the vicinity; Joshua Graham, and O’Hara.

The ghoul lay awake, soothed by the sound of so many people breathing. Growing up as he had, sharing a bedroom with four brothers, in a house with walls thin enough that he heard his sister toss and turn in her bed across the hall, his father snoring and his mother waking whenever the baby cried, he found he liked hearing people stirring or mumbling as they passed through dreamland. It was comforting – not being alone.

The Burned Man slept restlessly. O’Hara sighed, heart sinking at the thought that he must be troubled. Was he dreaming of the flames, the Legion, or the White Legs? The courier rolled over so that he could watch the rise and fall of Joshua’s chest. His good eye was used to the darkness. While the light of day was always painful, the ghoul could see quite well at night. He smiled fondly, letting his gaze roam the curves and angles of Joshua’s profile, muted and obscured as they were.

Was the fluttery sensation in his chest infatuation? It had been so long since O’Hara’s youth that he wasn’t sure. Vague memories of people whose faces he’d forgotten drifted slowly by in his mind. Hazy memories. The beach, the smell of his father’s tobacco, the baseball diamond where Ken spent long summer days, sweating in the heat. A boy he might’ve liked, admired from afar, pined after. Sharing a bottle of Nuka Cola after a game. Sharing a cigarette – one of his father’s – smuggled in the pocket of his pants. Coughing, wheezing, laughing till he was hoarse. Till he cried.

Maybe it had felt like this, back then, but looking at Joshua, O’Hara couldn’t help but think that somehow this was different. More real, less like a dream.

 _My memories might as well belong to someone else,_ he thought. Everything in them, _everyone_ in them, was gone.

The truth no longer hurt – hadn’t in years. Instead, it made O’Hara’s chest ache in a subtle, distanced way that was almost nostalgic. It was the ache of finding out that no one carried your brand of hair oil anymore, the ache of a schoolmate moving away. It wasn’t trivial, but it wasn’t that important, either.

Joshua shifted again and muttered something inaudible, the words lost in the folds of his bandages. O’Hara furrowed his brow, and debated crawling across the crowded room to wake the man. If it had been he having the nightmare, he knew he would appreciate being pulled from unconsciousness by a trusted friend.

“O’Hara,” Joshua murmured.

“Yes?” the ghoul whispered back, not wanting to wake the other sleepers.

“Ohh… ‘hara.”

Joshua’s breath hitched. The courier paused.

He wasn’t – he _couldn’t be –_

“… your mouth… that’s – yes… good.”

“Fiddlesticks,” O’Hara whispered, panic setting in. He cringed as he felt himself rise traitorously in response. He glanced down at his lap with a flick of his good eye and grimaced. His sex looked obscene, tenting the thin sheet that covered him.

He couldn’t deal with this – not in the hospice room – not during _Lent –_

 _Have mercy,_ he pleaded inwardly. It seemed a particularly cruel joke on the part of the man upstairs. Another soft groan reached him where he lay and he shut his eyes. _Don’t – don’t think it’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard but don’t – don’t think about –_

“… on your knees for me –”

O’Hara swallowed hard, squirming wretchedly. It was no use.

Acutely aware of his shame, he reached down and carefully tucked his disobedient flesh between his legs, squeezing them together to stave off the heat that prickled there. He folded his hands behind his back and lay on them, fingers laced together.

 _It’s just a test,_ he told himself. _You can ignore it._

He hadn’t laid like this, prick trapped and throbbing, since his teenage years. The downside to growing up as he had was that there was no privacy – not in a room with four other boys. The youngest – Connor – had always taken pleasure at tattling on his elder brothers – not realizing that one day he too would succumb to the unpredictability of adolescent hormones. The memory of the lights coming on all at once, one night in particular, of his father, cursing and grabbing O'Hara out of the top bunk and dragging him down the hall, when Ken’s hand was still tangled in his pajama pants, made the ghoul wince, and the urge abate, somewhat. He’d been spanked raw that night, which was memorable because his father was the type of man who was slow to resort to violence. He must’ve felt bad about it afterwards, as he’d gathered his sniffling son up in his arms and spoke to him in that special tone of voice he reserved for Serious Conversations. It had thrilled the courier to hear that voice – had thrilled all the O'Hara boys growing up – because it meant that their father saw them, in that moment, as young men, not children.

“You can’t be doing that to yourself, Kennedy Pearse O’Hara. That’s not how we raised you. Imagine what your mother’d think?”

O’Hara had nodded, kept a stiff upper lip, and met his father’s eyes. He found kindness in them, and the old man ruffled his carrot-coloured hair.

“You’re not a bad lad. I know it’s not easy, at your age, but you must try to master yourself. A man doesn’t give in to earthly pleasures.”

He’d brushed a tear off his son’s freckled cheek and chuckled sympathetically.

“Just save it up for your wife, son. You’ll be full grown soon enough, and you’ll have met and married some lovely thing soon after that. You want to be a good father one day, don’t you?”

O’Hara had nodded shakily, wiping his nose on his flannel pajama sleeve. Cowboy-patterned – he remembered that.

“When you’ve sons of your own, you’ll understand. Go on, then. Back to bed with you. Don’t do it again, right?”

He had, of course, but he did learn to be discrete about it. He also learned how to will himself to stop, practice self-control, like a grown man. It was only much, much later that O’Hara came to accept that most grown men showed little care for their immortal souls when it came to such matters, but his upbringing stuck with him, and even now, centuries later, he preferred to let the feeling pass than to act on it.

Joshua wasn’t making it easy.

_There’s no reason I can’t… appreciate him like this. Aesthetically speaking. It’s still a sin, but it’s hardly so bad. It’d be a wasted opportunity to just… ignore him, altogether._

Making uneasy peace with his decision, O’Hara turned his head and listened, thighs tight against each other, rocking slightly in place.

Joshua had stopped speaking now, his words and breathy moans giving way to more demanding, authoritative grunts. They were building, inevitably, towards conclusion, and O’Hara realized, suddenly, he was about to hear Joshua spend, and the impact of that fact was so earth-shattering that he scarcely noticed when the Mormon jerked awake, sitting up with a noise of pain.

For a fleeting moment, O’Hara thought he’d finished, but the tense posture and heaving chest betrayed another outcome. Joshua cursed softly, under his breath, which confirmed the courier’s suspicions – that something was wrong – for, as a Mormon, he abhorred swearing.

O’Hara froze, held his breath, and waited as the Burned Man rose to his feet and limped out the door that led to the outside kitchen. He heard the man, pacing and shuffling, and pity came over him as he remembered Joshua’s strangled admission – that the process of arousal was excruciating for him.

 _Poor man,_ O’Hara thought. It was one thing to wrestle with the inconvenience of one’s libido, and quite another thing to have the unfortunate, but inevitable, existence of said urges cause such terrible pain.

_You should talk to him._

The thought formed suddenly and almost seemed a stranger in O’Hara’s head. He debated his options. His own arousal was almost a memory – it would be easy to roll over and fall asleep. Still, the night was cold – funny thing about deserts, really. Colder than expected once the sun set. The idea of Joshua alone and suffering was intolerable. Mind made up, O’Hara stood and followed Joshua’s footsteps, bringing his sheet with him. He grabbed his cigarettes off a shelf as he passed by where they sat and stepped out into the chilly air.

Joshua startled and his head whirled around, eyes wide and hostile. At the sight of the ghoul, he immediately looked away.

“Can’t sleep?” O’Hara asked. He huffed in response. The courier took a step forward and held the cardboard pack out to his friend.

“Cigarette?”

Joshua eyed them, still avoiding his gaze.

“Mormons don’t smoke.”

O’Hara shrugged.

“You told me once you don’t drink coffee either, but you had a cup or two back in Zion.”

Joshua glowered.

“I’m not interested.”

“That’s fine. Just observing. Do you mind if I…?”

“… if you must.”

O’Hara lit a cigarette and took a long, satisfactory drag. Of all the vices to pick up on the Strip, this wasn’t nearly the worst. He exhaled through his exposed nasal cavity and unwrapped the sheet from around his shoulders.

“It’s a cold night. I thought you could use this.”

Joshua flinched slightly as the fabric was draped over his shoulders, but he nodded and mumbled his thanks. O’Hara did not retreat, allowing his hands to rest, palm down against the muscles of the Burned Man’s upper back.

“I’m sorry,” the courier said softly.

“What for?”

O’Hara fingered a frayed bit of bandage. _No sense telling lies…_

“I heard you. Just now.”

Joshua went rigid beneath his hands.

“I don’t know what you’re –”

“Does it always wake you up? The pain?”

The Burned Man shrugged him off and started to storm off, only to remember they were both fenced in the same, small scrap of land. He doubled back, pacing like a wild dog.

_“Yes.”_

He spat the words, hissed them, barbed and vicious. O’Hara nodded.

“And can you not…?”

“What? Defile myself?”

O’Hara shook some ash off the end of his cigarette.

“I was going to say ‘feel pleasure,’ but if that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

Joshua glared at him.

“Do you _disapprove_ of how I refer to my own emissions, courier?”

There was a cold edge to his voice. O’Hara knew he was onto something.

“I don’t approve or disapprove of anything. I simply don’t like seeing you in pain.”

“I’m _always_ in pain.”

The ghoul conceded that with nod and ambled forwards.

“If you’re going to stay here,” he stated, “we need to talk. Not tonight – not soon, if you don’t want to, but eventually, because the way I see it, not much has changed since I left. At least, not for me. I’m no stranger to temptation now, Joshua. It’s an old friend. Lately, it’s paid me more social calls than usual.”

The Burned Man scoffed.

“You seem quite comfortable admitting your own propensity to sin.”

“I’d rather admit the flaws I have then add deception to the mix. I’m an honest man – it’s just my nature. It’s not to say I act on every impulse. If I had, I think I’d still be back in bed, finishing what _you_ started for me.”

Joshua made a vague noise of disapproval.

“I have waited all my life for an answer to a question,” O’Hara mused. “Ever since I was young, I asked God what His plan was for me. I love the priesthood – I love everything it stands for – but I always wondered if God would call me to be married, vocationally-speaking.”

Joshua stopped his pacing.

“And? Did He?”

O’Hara exhaled – through his mouth this time – and shook his head.

“No. But he did call me to love someone once. A good man. A tortured man.”

Joshua’s eyes were unreadable.

“That's you, if you can't take the hint. I have spent the past year waiting for many, many answers. Waiting to know if you were alright. Waiting to know if you missed me. Waiting to know if you cared for me –”

“Of course I care –”

“ –if you could find it in yourself to love me. As brothers in Christ. As more than that.”

O’Hara stubbed his cigarette out on the brick wall of the building and threw the butt on the ground.

“What surprised me wasn’t that I waited. It was that I no longer cared what the answers were – any of them. Just asking for them was more than I had ever dared to hope for.”

He walked forward, and stopped when he stood chest to chest with the Burned Man.

“I don’t ever want to take from you what you don’t want to give me. That goes for your friendship, for a kiss… for anything. But I think it’s cruel of me to keep this truth to myself, if you are so discomforted by it that you’d rather leave here and go somewhere else.”

O’Hara smiled wistfully.

“I won’t hate you if you do. I must admit, I selfishly hope you’ll stay – even if it’s strictly just as a friend. But I accept your choice, whatever it is.”

Joshua shut his eyes, squinted hard, and sighed.

“It is very, very difficult for me to talk about this,” he said finally.

“Good,” O’Hara chuckled. “I’m not alone, then. Honestly, I feel so embarrassed I could die.”

“It’s not that I don’t… that I’m not… I just can’t do what it is you’re asking me to do.”

“What am I asking you to do?”

Joshua floundered.

“I… suppose it’s more what I’m asking myself to do,” he admitted. “I find I am weak in the face of… this.”

O’Hara nodded.

“I can appreciate that.”

They stood in silence, listening to each other breathing.

“Could I… propose something?” O’Hara said at last. Joshua cocked his head.

“Even if you – hypothetically – were both willing and able to engage in… _that_... I can’t undertake such an adventure – at least, not before Easter. It’s Lent – we Catholics give things up. I gave up… well, any of the possible things we could do. Or most of them, anyway.”

Joshua nodded. When he spoke, he sounded uncharacteristically hesitant, almost shy.

“… most of them.”

O’Hara nodded.

“I do not think,” he elaborated, “that hand holding or even a quick peck would cause the sky to fall. That is… if you’re game. We could try it. If we both feel an impending sense of being immediately cast into Hell we can always repent and wait until the feelings pass. Or until we dry up and die – whichever comes first.”

Joshua considered for some time – O’Hara waited, cold but unwilling to leave. Then, gradually, the Mormon raised his hands to his head. Slowly – carefully – he untucked the end of the bandage that covered his face. The fabric fell away in loops until his chin and mouth were bared. He inclined his head, and frowned.

“The angle is… strange. You’re taller than me.”

O’Hara let out a disbelieving puff of laughter. He could feel Joshua’s words on his own lips.

“I think, in this case, my lack of a nose will serve to our advantage,” was all he could think to say, and closed the distance.

It was chaste – just the faint brush of scar tissue against scar tissue. O’Hara’s ghoulification had deadened his senses somewhat – especially in his lips, and he heard the soft slide of skin more than he felt it. His bad eye throbbed as its twin pricked with sudden tears. Joshua pulled back after a moment and when he spoke, he sounded shaken.

“Do you feel… impending damnation?”

O’Hara shrugged.

“No more than usual.”

He offered Joshua his hand and nodded towards the door.

“Let’s go back inside before one of us freezes to death out here.”

They filed back into the darkened room, and Joshua wordlessly returned the sheet before re-bandaging his face with trembling fingers.

“If that’s all you ever allow me,” O’Hara whispered, so as not to wake the others, “you will still have made me the happiest man Nevada, and the luckiest guy on the Strip.”

Without waiting for Joshua to piece together a response, the ghoul turned to face the wall, and feigned sleep, smiling in the darkness.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a filler chapter. I'm working on the next one as we speak - but this one is necessary to set up the next one.
> 
> Warnings for: awkward medical exams, weird ghoul biology, and ghoul masturbation

Heart racing, O’Hara cleared his throat to get the good doctor’s attention, stepping into the tent and flashing a nervous grin.

“Do you have a minute?”

Arcade nodded, setting aside the book he’d been reading.

“What’s up?”

O’Hara fidgeted.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a physical. If it’s not a bad time.”

Arcade raised his eyebrows, but gestured for O’Hara to stand in the middle of the tent. He got up from his chair and pulled the tent flap closed, for privacy, before turning around to face his twitchy patient.

“What’s changed?”

O’Hara, in spite of his nerves, couldn’t hide the triumphant little smile that came across his face.

“Joshua and I. We kissed last night.”

"Congratulations. And?”

The ghoul shook his head.

“That’s all. But it got me thinking – if, _if_ , things go beyond… that, I should like to know – in advance, that I’m in proper working order.”

Arcade nodded again.

“Right, okay. Drop trou, then. Let’s get to it.”

The courier neatly stepped out of his pants and underwear, and then stood, hands at his sides, unable to look his friend in the eye.

“Wow,” Arcade murmured. “That’s… painful looking. Okay – I’m going to have to touch you. That alright?”

O’Hara nodded, biting his lip as the doctor gently lifted his penis.

“Did you… lose some of this?”

“Yes.”

Arcade clicked his tongue, riveted on the sight.

“That is bizarre – no offense.”

The doctor ran a finger over the strange, curling edges and small, bulbous growths that formed the new ‘head’ to the half-missing shaft. O’Hara shivered in spite of himself and grimaced as he twitched in his friend’s grip.

“Does that hurt?”

Arcade’s thumb carelessly brushed over the ghoul’s urethra and his flesh responded, pressing eagerly into the man’s hand.

“Well, good to see _that_ still works,” the doctor laughed. O’Hara shut his eyes and shook his head, embarrassed.

“Gosh,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

“Trust me – I’ve seen and dealt with worse.”

Arcade’s examination turned to the hard, lumpy mass that was the courier’s surviving testicle. He prodded it gently.

“Were you always missing one?”

The ghoul shook his head.

“And how long has your testicle been this size?”

O’Hara shrugged.

“Since shortly after the bombs fell.”

“Okay. Slow progress, then. This is rock solid,” the doctor muttered. “Does that hurt?”

O’Hara nodded, grateful for the pain, which immediately caused his arousal to wilt.

“It almost feels like – hold on, okay? I’m going to apply some pressure to this and it will probably be pretty unpleasant.”

“Right.”

O’Hara steeled himself.

When Arcade pressed down, he felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He couldn’t breathe, his body rigid with pain. He let go and O’Hara doubled over, struggling to catch his breath.

“Do you ever see blood in your semen or urine?”

O’Hara nodded.

“Sometimes. Am I alright?”

Arcade considered this.

“In a human, I’d be really worried,” he admitted. “I haven’t had many ghoul patients, but you’re actually doing quite well in comparison. For one thing, you still have most of your penis. You’re actually in pretty good health, all things considered.”

“Oh,” O’Hara breathed. “That _is_ good news. Thank you, doctor.”

“Don’t mention it. I would like a semen sample, though.”

O’Hara faltered, half-way through reaching for his clothes.

“What? Why?”

“To see if you have any other things we should be worried about.”

The ghoul wrung his hands.

“But it’s Lent –”

“Yes, but this is a medical procedure. Your God must be able to tell the difference.”

O’Hara stood still, flustered and half-naked.

“I… I suppose. If I must.”

Arcade retrieved a small container.

“Collect it in here. I’ll step outside for a bit. Is fifteen minutes enough time, or –”

“You want me to do it here?” the ghoul protested.

“Uh, yeah. Look, I’ll guard the door. So, fifteen minutes? Or do you need longer than that?”

The courier stared down at the container in his hand, feeling sick.

“I… that’ll be more than enough,” he mumbled.

“Okay. Have fun.”

Arcade grabbed his book and breezed out of the tent, leaving O’Hara alone.

“It’s for my health,” he reminded himself. “It's medical.”

It was shamefully easy to work himself up. The ghoul sat in the dirt, fingertips working his flesh. He couldn’t simply pull on himself like he had in his youth – the whole process had changed. Instead, he dragged his nails over the backwards-curling folds of tissue at the head, and over the small rows of bumps that grew there. It felt good after so long abstaining and he whimpered in spite of himself, toes curling.

Exposed as it was, he could fit the tip of his little finger into his urethra, and he did, the feeling shooting down his spine like an electric shock.

He remembered Joshua, stripped down to his temple garments, shy and private as he undressed by the shore. He remembered the press of his lips. He imagined those blue eyes, dark and wild with arousal or warm and fond with love.

After that, it took no time at all.

O’Hara came with a shaky breath and caught his issue in the receptacle. He stared at it. Thin, sticky strands – more like webbing than semen, really. The mess glowed faintly yellow-green.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and dressed himself, before walking over to the flap of the tent. He coughed.

“I’m done,” he whispered. The flap pulled back and Arcade stepped inside, brow furrowed.

“You sure? You were only at it five minutes.”

The ghoul nodded and held out his sample. Arcade gaped at it.

“What – it looks - hang on.”

He searched the tent and retrieved a Geiger counter. He passed it over the sample and, sure enough, it clicked.

“Okay,” he breathed. “New rule, O’Hara.”

“Yes?”

“Any time you and your Mormon fool around together, you’re keeping RadAway nearby. Especially if he’s the kind of guy who swallows.”

“Arcade!” the courier cringed. “He wouldn’t – I’d never –”

“Save it for someone who actually cares about your piety. I’m just here to make sure the guy doesn’t wind up irradiated when you come.”

O’Hara nodded, forced out a thank you, and stumbled home in a daze. He promptly had a very thorough wash, and only after he felt truly clean did he consider Arcade’s words seriously. Feeling a mixture of foolishness and shame, he checked his belongings. He had three RadAway treatments on hand – he’d been meaning to sell them. Instead, he stuffed them inside his mattress, hiding them next to his box of letters, and attempted to plaster an expression of innocence on his face when he saw Joshua again that evening.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another conversation-heavy chapter. This fic is great for me because it's allowing me to show readers the sort of relationship I (and people like me) might pursue. 
> 
> Temptation is always a struggle, but what people don't always realize is that the temptation doesn't end when you find the person who God wants you to be with. When you and said person are together, the key is, always, to recenter yourselves in faith whenever hormones/lust/attraction distract you (provided you both share religious convictions. Certainly for me (23 and saving myself until I find such a God-centered relationship) I don't date casually. I don't have sex. But even if I found 'the one' tomorrow, if the urge to sleep with him was stronger, in a heated moment, than my focus on God, I wouldn't give into it. Because the love of the person is always secondary to the love of God.
> 
> I know at times it may seem like this story is taking forever - and it certainly is. Sometimes it feels like that, waiting for 'the one' to come alone. But for me, the key is to love the whole journey, and re-center myself often. O'Hara and Joshua are operating in a similar way. So while I could just jump straight to the sex, I think that would make them lose sight of their first love - the love that brought them together - which is their love of Christ.
> 
> (Sorry for this random little rant. I have friends going through various things relating to this right now, and our different notions of the importance of sex has been raised and I find myself increasingly at odds with the secular opinions of my peers. Not that I'm telling them how to live or anything - we don't do that mutually (I don't tell them to stop sleeping with people, they don't tell me to sleep with people.) But I find I have very few examples of 'my kind of romantic life' amongst peers, or the media or anything. So I'm writing this the way I'd imagine such a romance might go between two people of faith.
> 
> Finally, in light of one of my friends currently going through a break-up, I just want to wish all of you blessings in whatever your romantic situations are. Matters of the heart are often very complicated and sometimes painful. I pray you all find what you're looking for.

* * *

In the desert, it was hard to mark the days, but on the Strip, it was easier to keep track of time. O’Hara noted the occasion of Good Friday, wishing, as he always did when it approached, that he had a church to go to.

 _Always seems wrong, without a Mass,_ he thought, but he didn’t dwell, as there was too much to do.

Mormons, he learned, did not do anything special on Good Friday. It struck him as strange, and a little blasphemous, not to – though he tempered his gut reaction. Joshua had been equally disturbed when O’Hara did not touch a thing at breakfast, and then the Burned Man, magnanimously, decided to fast in solidarity. It was a kind gesture, though when it was noon, he broke his fast with a full lunch, while O’Hara contented himself with some stale bread and three sips of water, in the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

The Easter party loomed, daunting in its scale. The small, ruined building didn’t hold nearly enough space, but Arcade had talked Julie into letting the ghoul host it at the Followers’ base. The Old Mormon Fort could accommodate all the needy, and, with that taken care of, all that remained was to cook.

Old Ben, in his many adventures, had seen a bighorner roasted whole on a spit. He offered to try his hand at it, and O’Hara was all too glad to pass that job on to him.

Word of the party spread around, and charity began to trickle in. Joshua was, initially, perturbed by the inclusion of alcohol (courtesy of Gomorrah and the Tops,) preserved Pre-War foodstuffs from Vault 21, and an absurd cake in the shape of some sort of long-necked bird from the Ultra Luxe, but O’Hara accepted it all.

“Every little bit helps,” he insisted, “and who am I to discourage generosity?”

“Over half of these ‘gifts’ come from dens of iniquity,” Joshua argued, and O’Hara nodded.

“But they were given in good faith, and in good faith we shall accept them.”

Joshua huffed.

“You’re quite the politician.”

The courier had laughed at that.

“I have to be, Joshua – we can’t all be good shots or skilled combatants. If I wasn’t at least mildly tolerable I’d have been dead long before I had time to be shot in the head.”

On Sunday morning, O’Hara tried colouring eggs. His choices were limited – both in pigments and in the eggs themselves. He’d managed to save enough caps to buy a deathclaw egg, and had found a dozen gecko eggs, but that was it. In his childhood, he remembered, you could buy little cardboard boxes, in which the colours red, green, yellow, and blue could be purchased in liquid form. His mother would mix them up with hot water and vinegar, and each of the children would dye one egg for themselves – with her supervision. (O’Hara’s would always be blue.) That would make half a dozen, leaving six more. The children were then to decide what colours to use on the other six, and who would get which egg – one for Mama, one for Papa, one for each of his maternal grandparents (his paternal ones still lived in Ireland and could rarely make the trip overseas,) one for Baby, (although Baby couldn’t eat the whole thing,) and one for Father McGowan who always stopped by after Mass. They had been white chicken eggs from the supermarket. The whole process had been straightforward, simple, and pleasant for all involved.

It was much harder, now. Unlike the pristine, unblemished eggs of his youth, these eggs were large, thick-shelled, dark and misshapen. It was difficult to turn them into anything remotely attractive. Ultimately, the only colours he was able to use were those natural pigments that enhanced the pre-existing colours of the eggshells.

When Joshua woke and came out to the yard, O’Hara held up his handiwork – one red deathclaw egg, one green gecko egg, each mottled and lumpy.

“Look,” he chuckled. “They’re us.”

Joshua shook his head but when he spoke, O’Hara heard amusement in his voice.

“Did you have breakfast?”

O’Hara shook his head.

“No – I was planning to just wait for the party tonight. Ghouls and our small appetites and all that.”

Joshua hesitated.

“I had… I had hoped we might eat together.”

O’Hara set his coloured eggs aside.

“I… sure. I suppose.”

The ghoul followed Joshua up to the chapel and out, through the hole in the wall, until they sat, overlooking the Strip. The view suffered in daylight but it was still interesting enough to warrant looking at, and it allowed them a quiet place to hold private conversations.

“How… how do you feel today?” Joshua said, half way through a fresh apple. O’Hara watched the juice run down the Burned Man’s chin, saturating his bandages.

“I’m alright. Why?”

Joshua shrugged.

“Old Ben mentioned you’d been to see the doctor. Are you well?”

“Oh, that. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Good.”

“I’m touched you asked,” O’Hara remarked, and pressed his lips to the Mormon’s bandaged cheek quickly. Joshua caught him by the shoulder as he moved to pull away and stared at him.

“What –”

Joshua’s exposed lips brushed the ghoul’s own. He tasted of apples. O’Hara hummed appreciatively into the kiss, let Joshua pull back, and smiled.

“That was kind of you. It’s shaping up to be a wonderful morning.”

Joshua nodded. He seemed unwilling to verbally acknowledge the embrace, but they could always work on that, O’Hara mused.

Another silence stretched between them. At first, it was comfortable, but it grew steadily tenser. O’Hara stretched and yawned.

“Well, pleasant as this is, I’ve got a thousand things to do, so –”

“Wait.”

Joshua stared at the apple core he was holding, turning it over in his hands.

“Today is Easter.”

O’Hara laughed.

“I certainly hope so, or I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for nothing.”

The Burned Man shook his head.

“I have been thinking… you’re… you’re finished Lent, now. I wondered if…”

O’Hara swallowed.

“If…?”

Joshua met his eyes. O’Hara saw fear there – so alien in the war leader. When the Mormon didn’t elaborate, the ghoul sighed and sat back down, smiling ruefully.

“Two grown men,” he remarked. “More than two centuries and no experience between them. Not that I’m ashamed of my purity – far from it. Nor yours. But it frightens me all the more, to think of losing it now.”

Joshua nodded.

“That’s why… I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t even know if I could – how I could… you know my burns are extensive.”

The fear suddenly took on new meaning. O’Hara cringed at his own stupidity. Joshua could face foes in battle – could face death unafraid. It wasn’t the fear of the act itself that held him back so much as the fear of failure.

“Joshua, I mean this – I have no idea how things would work, between us. My anatomy is disfigured – you know that – and I am sure that whatever we may do in the future will be unique to us. If we try, and you don’t enjoy it, we won’t do anything of the sort again. I’ve been celibate all my life – I hardly know what I’m missing, now, do I? Not that I think of it as missing anything. I'm already blessed to be with you.”

O’Hara took a bandaged hand in his own.

“If you’re worried, I could talk to Arcade –”

“What? No! What for?” Joshua hissed, recoiling. “I don’t want him to think –”

“That we’re pursuing each other? I’m afraid he already knows. I had him check me over, just in case,” the ghoul admitted. “I suppose it’s as good a time as any to admit my own shortcomings. We’ll need to be careful, you see. He had me… give a sample. Of my issue. And it. Um. It’s significantly radioactive. Not enough to kill you or anything, but certainly enough to cause concern.”

Joshua stared down at their joined hands.

“When I dream of it,” he admitted, “I dream of myself being… whole. You’re you, as you are, but I’m me as I was. The reality of our circumstances is… disappointing.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” O’Hara countered. “The dreams… I used to have those. They’ve mostly gone now. Haven’t had one in about fifty years. After I turned, though – right after – I would dream about the old me all the time. Sometimes it felt so real that I’d wake up and for a moment think that the real world was the dream.”

“A nightmare,” Joshua muttered, and his grip tightened on O’Hara’s fingers.

“I still have doubts about all of his,” he added. O’Hara nodded.

“So do I. We don’t have to do anything – just because Lent is over doesn’t mean we have to decide anything now.”

Joshua forced a pained laugh.

“You ghouls and your insufferable patience. I don’t think I can go on much longer, as we’re going. It’s becoming a distraction.”

“From God,” O’Hara nodded. “I feel the same way. My fondness for you brings me closer to Him daily – I thank Him for you all the time. But lately it’s been impossible to focus. I feel quite… addled by it all.”

Joshua thought for a moment.

“What we need,” he decided, “is a plan of action. We can’t rush into anything without putting faith first. Perhaps if we set a tentative date, we could… prepare ourselves. Spiritually.”

O’Hara beamed at his initiative.

“I can think of no better solution. You really are precious to me. I suggest we book time at a hotel – not a few hours – a proper vacation. We could take some time away to grow in faith and love. If that means learning each other… intimately… well, we could do that. If we both decide the time’s not right, or we don’t want to – or if either of us can’t, then we can still take the time to focus on what we want from our…”

“Partnership,” Joshua suggested, and O’Hara nodded.

“Precisely.”

The Burned Man smiled – a rare and beautiful thing. He looked as immensely relieved as O’Hara felt.

“I am glad we talked about this,” he said, and the courier responded by raising their hands to his lips. He kissed the place where their fingers intertwined – a gentle act, unhurried by passion.

“Whatever we do, we do together,” he vowed. “United in faith.”

“Together,” Joshua repeated. A feeling of mutual goodwill and respect settled over the pair.

“Now that that’s all settled, do you fancy helping me make decorations for tonight?” the ghoul inquired.

“I would like that,” Joshua replied.

The order restored to both of their immediate futures, both men went about their day’s work in harmony, with faith reaffirmed as their first priority, and Paschal hymns on their lips.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unforeseen issues make potential sex into a bad, bad situation.
> 
> (Don't worry, these guys will eventually get a happy ending (heh) but they have some shit to work through on the way there.)
> 
> Also trigger warning for eye trauma, as O'Hara's bad eye finally gives up the ghost.

* * *

_“Father McGowan!”_

_“Ah, Kennedy! I didn’t see you there. Why are you here, my boy? I thought you had a graduation to attend.”_

_“I did. I do, but – I have to tell you something!”_

_“Why, you’re red as a beet! Sit down, son, you look like you’re about to collapse.”_

_“I know. I ran all the way here. Father, it’s important –”_

_“As is your high school diploma! Don’t think I don’t appreciate your dedication, but surely whatever this is will wait until Confession, child – it can’t be so bad as all this.”_

_“It’s not! It’s good – I asked God to help me. To tell me what to do, now I’m finished school. He told me, Father – it came to me, clear as a vision!”_

_“Oh yes?”_

_“Yes, Father – I’m going to become a priest!”_

Standing over the sink of one of the Ultra Luxe’s en-suite bathrooms, O’Hara struggled with his thoughts.

“I’ve been a seminarian for over two centuries,” he murmured. “If I’m not that anymore, what am I?”

The Ultra Luxe had been O’Hara’s choice for The Encounter, as he inwardly called it. One and a half-months after Easter. The room had cost a pretty penny, but O'Hara had friends in all sorts of places _._ When word got around he, of all people, was taking a _partner,_ it seemed that was too precious a charity case to let pass unmarked. In the end, he'd taken the Ultra Luxe's offer of a discount. In the end, it was one of the least seedy hotels in the area, and, nervous as the whole situation made him, he’d thought the taste of Pre-War elegance would be a comfort. Now, he wondered what he’d been thinking. Pre-War as it was, such finery and decadence were not parts of his past. He felt as alienated by the opulence as he did by the prospect of what would transpire when he left the sanctuary of the bathroom.

Joshua wasn’t helping.

Likely as a means of controlling his own anxiety, the Burned Man kept pacing around the room. It set O’Hara on edge, to hear him stalking in circles, like a guard on patrol. On his tenth lap of the place, the courier cleared his throat, opening the bathroom door.

“My, it’s hot in here! I think I’ll take off my shirt.”

Joshua stared at him. The ghoul grimaced.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “That was awful.”

He stared at his hands.

“Maybe we should… sit down?”

They sat.

“I’m unreasonably nervous,” O’Hara admitted.

“You don’t want to –”

“I _do_ want to… it’s just… I have my vows to think of, incomplete as they are. It’s proving a challenge to think past my instinctive response to reject such desire.”

Joshua nodded.

“But you would like to try,” he stated, and O’Hara agreed.

“Absolutely – just don’t mind the jitters. I’m a nervous nellie at the best of times.”

He fingered the buttons of his shirt.

“Well. I’m going to do this,” he said, more to himself than to Joshua, and began to unbutton the garment. He slipped it off with a shrug and sent his undershirt after it, rumpling on the floor. He started on his belt when a hand settled on his wrist. He turned. Joshua’s eyes were uncommonly bright and focused.

“Allow me,” he murmured and O’Hara swallowed, lifting his hips as Joshua unfastened the trousers and pulled everything down and off.

“Here I am,” the ghoul chuckled nervously. Joshua was staring at his prick, not quite hiding his disgust.

“Take the bandages off your mouth,” O’Hara pleaded, arranging himself to sit with his arm conveniently draped across his lap. Out of sight, out of mind, for now. “I want to kiss you.”

Joshua did one better. He unwrapped loop after loop, layer after layer, until his whole face was bare. O’Hara, having only seen it once before, and only then in darkness, gasped softly, and Joshua flinched.

“I can put it ba– ”

“No, don’t,” O’Hara insisted, scooting slightly closer on the bed. “You are…”

He couldn’t find a word. What he saw in those scars was embodied paradox. Tender and cruel. Loving and hateful. Beautiful and horrible.

“You’re the same as me,” he said at last, “but different. I am struck by what we share, and what we don’t.”

He inched closer still.

“I’m not repulsed,” he said firmly. “I am simply moved by the trust you’ve put in me. I am _so_ honoured by it, Joshua.”

He bent his head and brushed his lips, feather-light, over the corner of Joshua’s mouth.

“May I kiss you?” he asked. “Here?”

Joshua nodded. O’Hara kissed that corner and softly worked his way across the line of the Burned Man’s mouth with a path of tiny pecks. When he reached the other side, he dared to flick his tongue against the ridges of scar tissue.

Joshua tensed, but cautiously opened his own mouth, tongue extending to meet O’Hara’s own.

Radiation and fire had robbed each man of much of their external sensitivity, but their tongues were both in good condition. The juxtaposition of mild press of closed lips to this meeting of muscles was dizzying. Both men moaned – as much in surprise as in pleasure.

O’Hara lifted his hands to gently touch Joshua’s temples, cradling his jaw against the meat of his palm. The Burned Man hissed, pulling away.

“Does it hurt so much as that?” O’Hara asked and he shook his head.

“Just… overwhelming. I’m not used to… touch.”

The ghoul nodded.

“I should like to touch you,” he admitted. “I should like to see you plain, if you would let me.”

Joshua responded by taking one of the ghoul’s hands and placing it on his bandaged chest.

“Would you like to help?”

It was a laborious process. Gradually, inch by inch, reddened, flame-scarred flesh was revealed. They bared the arms first. Each strong, straight finger was individually unwrapped, and O’Hara pressed them to his lips, kissing the Mormon’s knuckles. _Young hands,_ he mused, for his own were stiff and bent with arthritis. The wrists were fine, handsome joints – even scarred as he was, the man’s bone structure was impeccable. O’Hara briefly wondered if they’d have appealed to each other, before their disfigurement. He had no doubt that Joshua would be alluring, all blue eyes and sharp features, handsome and pious, but would such a man look twice at a pasty redhead with a childish face?

“O’Hara? What is it?”

He blinked, coming back to the present. Joshua had finished unwrapping his arms, a worried look on his face.

“Nothing,” the ghoul assured him. “Just imagining how this might’ve gone if we’d both been our old selves.”

“You’d have been long dead before we met,” Joshua said bluntly. O’Hara nodded.

“I know. It’s an absurd thought…”

O’Hara dragged his fingertips up from Joshua’s wrists, feeling the whorls and ridges of skin all the way up his bare arm. His hand halted when he brushed against the sleeve of the Mormon’s temple garment. Joshua inhaled sharply, eyes fixed on the ghoul’s hand.

“My legs next,” he prompted. “Would you –?”

“Of course.”

The memory of Joshua dreaming in the hospice room came to the ghoul and despite the pain in his joints, he knelt and began to unwrap the bandages, looking up with his good eye dark and wild.

“I believe you wanted me on my knees?”

Joshua nodded, swallowing visibly, his pupils wide and black.

Right leg bared, then left.

“There’s more bandages underneath,” he admitted.

O’Hara sat back on his heels and let Joshua remove his garment himself. The view was a privilege in itself. Sure enough, when it was removed, he was still concealed by more wrappings that hid him from collarbone to thigh. Even so, O’Hara thrilled at the sight.

“Please,” O’Hara breathed, “Please, let me see you.”

Joshua lowered his eyes as he slowly unwound the strips of fabric from around his body. Chest. Stomach.

O’Hara couldn’t wait, and leaned in to press a sloppy kiss to Joshua’s abdomen, desperate to be close to him.

“And the rest,” he murmured. Joshua nodded, and the bandages fell away at last.

He had been serious – his penis was fused to the skin of his thigh. Prepared as he was for this, O’Hara was not repulsed. Rather, the ghoul felt himself harden further and a dribble of viscous pre-ejaculate ooze out of his tumor-rimmed urethra.

“Can I –”

Another nod. The courier bent forwards and pressed his mouth to the head, tonguing at the skin that stuck it in place. Joshua’s hips pressed forward and a hand pressed hard against the ghoul’s scalp, clenching fistfuls of patchy carrot-coloured hair.

Confidence increasing, O’Hara sucked hard at the melted ridge of tissue that had once been Joshua’s foreskin, and he nearly wept with joy when he felt the swell of arousal surge back against his mouth.

Suddenly, he was bereft – Joshua yanked him away, howling in pain and curling inwards to shield himself from view. It made no difference – O’Hara looked on in horrified understanding. The Burned Man’s penis, having reached full erection, was stretching the skin to which it was fused so severely that the tissue had turned white under the strain.

O’Hara’s heartbreak was audible when he spoke.

“Oh, Joshua…”

The look that the Mormon shot him was devastating.

“It’s no use!” the Burned Man hissed.

“Perhaps there’s another way we could –”

“Oh? Oh, what would that be? Tell me, to my face, that there is still a fraction – still a single _crumb of doubt_ in your mind that _this_ isn’t a sign! God doesn’t want us doing this!”

“I don’t think we can read so much into something as mundane as this. Arcade says many couples have difficulty –”

“Arcade says? Yes, let’s put our trust in the resident atheist, shall we? No man of greater virtue than the precious doctor –”

“Hey, now – he’s a good friend –”

“Then why don’t you do this with _him?”_

O’Hara’s rebuttal died on his tongue. Joshua was shaking with anger – perhaps with anguish too. The courier found he could no longer tell. He reeled from the blow, took a breath, and answered.

“If I had wanted to do this with Arcade,” he replied, his voice tight and cool, “I would have done so before I met you. I did not. I do not. I wanted to do this with you, because sometimes I am quite certain you are the love of my life. Other times…”

“Yes?”

Joshua’s eyes were blue flame, and they burned with anger, daring him to speak. O’Hara clenched his jaw.

“Other times I think the man I love was dying long before I met him. That I fell in love with a shadow, lost in the desert. Your pain, I can understand, but your cruelty… sometimes I think you’ve lost what made you good.”

He rose to his feet, and dressed. Joshua watched him, silent and still. O’Hara hesitated by the door, and looked back over his shoulder.

“Joshua –”

“Oh, by all means,” the Burned Man interrupted. “Get out.”

The walk back to the ruined storefront was humiliating, mostly because O’Hara could not speak for weeping. When he opened the door, he was horrified to hear a little set of bells ring out – he winced, having forgotten Old Ben had put them up a week before. The old volunteer came out from the back, likely expecting a new admittant, but at the sight of the ghoul, his expression turned grave.

“What happened? Where’s –”

“I can’t – can’t talk ab-bout it,” O’Hara forced out. His bad eye gave a particularly violent throb and he felt something leak out from it. Ben recoiled.

“Your eye – it just – stay here. I’m getting Arcade.”

O’Hara stayed, standing until his knees gave out and he had to sink onto the floor. His ears were ringing thunderously and his whole body had broken out in shivers.

 _Ring-a-ling._ The bells sounded again, followed by the sound of footsteps and Old Ben, speaking.

“ – and the next minute, his eye just… popped. It sort of imploded – it’s leaking all down the front of his face –”

“Hey,” Arcade got down on one knee beside the ghoul. “Hey, look at me. What happened, O’Hara?”

The courier tried to focus – tried to keep from shaking.

“Ruined,” he mumbled. “Ruined, all.”

He sobbed in despair, his bad eye stinging sharply, draining down his cheek.

“Father McGowan… I need to talk to F-father M…gow…”

Arcade pressed the back of his hand to the ghoul’s forehead and cursed.

“He’s burning up – his eye was probably infected, and now that it’s burst, the contaminant could be in his blood stream. Help me get him up – I’m taking him back to the Followers.”

O’Hara’s head lolled down and a few teaspoons of vomit dribbled out of his mouth. He was aware of the movement of his feet, of the roaring cacophony in his head that drowned out all other sound, and of vague colours and shapes, but even as he was lowered to a mattress in a Followers tent, he was disoriented, to the point that all he could do was shudder and groan.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a teeny tiny chapter with Joshua and Arcade.
> 
> See? I'm not totally heartless, lol! Joshua deserved a bit of a break, and while minor surgery is not exactly a vacation, he'll appreciate it soon. ;) As always, Arcade is a sass master who, for some reason, has enough free time to randomly do non-essential procedures for friends and associates.

* * *

Joshua rarely felt remorse in relation to his behaviour with individuals. With people in general – those he’d help enslave, those he’d tortured and killed? He felt remorse as strongly as he’d felt the flames that burned away his old life. Yet, he realized, the remorse one felt for a sin of near-unfathomable weight, such as war crimes, was fundamentally different from that which one felt for words spoken in haste – for anger in a personal situation.

When he learned of the courier’s return, and of his eye, the guilt was heavy indeed. He staggered beneath it, in a spiritual sense. He felt unusually small and vulnerable when he asked Arcade’s permission to see the patient.

“He’s pretty doped up right now,” Arcade said flatly. “So you’ll have one hell of a time arguing with him.”

“I don’t want to argue. I want to pray.”

He summoned all his fearsomeness into a glare, and stared down the doctor, who rolled his eyes.

“Okay, okay. Go do your faith healing or whatever. If you make him worse, I will hurt you.”

He said that last bit with a smile that was disconcertingly cheerful, and Joshua decided he must be growing soft, for an atheist and a homosexual to unnerve him so successfully. Even as he knelt in the tent, he supposed he really couldn’t hold Arcade accountable for his sexual morality in the same way as he once would have. The memory of a kneeling O’Hara, looking up at him, wonderstruck, made the Mormon wilt with shame, thought it was impossible to discern whether he felt wretched on account of the act itself, or at the sight of the same face, now bandaged and lax in slumber, that he looked upon in his sickbed.

Praying beside the ghoul became a daily ritual. Joshua only left his post to relieve himself, and to take one meal, in the middle of the day. As he returned, his lunch tying his stomach in knots with nausea, he found the doctor, smoking, and asked him for a word.

“I was hoping for an update on his prognosis,” the Burned Man inquired.

“Ah, he’s a tough guy. He’ll be fine. That eye probably should’ve come out years ago.”

Arcade turned away, stubbing his cigarette out, and Joshua had to cough to get his attention.

“There’s… there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Go on.”

“Could you… could you possibly…”

Joshua had to actively fight to force the words out through his teeth.

“I need you to conduct an examination. Of me. My burns have troubled me greatly over the years but only lately they have made certain aspects of my life difficult. Impossible.”

Arcade nodded slowly.

“Okaaaaay. Do you want to elaborate on that, or…?”

The look Joshua shot him silenced the doctor, who shrugged and led him off to a deserted examination tent. When at last the problem was revealed, Arcade shook his head.

“And here I thought your paramour had the exclusive title of most damaged nether regions in New Vegas. Your problem’s scar tissue.”

“I _know_ that,” Joshua growled. “The underlying anatomy functions normally.”

“So, what do you want me to do about it?”

He gaped.

“Fix it! Propose a solution! You’re the courier’s friend. Do you think you could convince him to –”

“What, abstain forever? Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

Joshua clenched his fists, took a breath, and reached for his discarded clothes and bandages.

“Hold on. I never said I couldn’t do something.”

The doctor retrieved a scalpel, a stimpack, and a needle and thread. He rolled up his sleeves.

“How’s your pain tolerance?”

\----

When the man was done, he stepped back and nodded.

“That should do it. Keep taking stimpacks until the swelling goes down and you should be fine. It’s not pretty, but it ought to be an improvement.”

There was no saving Joshua’s shaft – no returning it to its pre-burned state – but a few cuts and stitches through melted tissue was enough to free the head, and to give his prick room to grow in arousal. He would still have to piss sideways, but he would be able to aim. Most importantly, the painful stretching would be bearable. He would never be normal, but he would be functional again.

The whole procedure took less than an hour – the scars that had tormented him the most, that had trapped Joshua in his own flesh, were, in reality, nothing more than thin folds of tissue, easily severed. They did not even have any major veins supplying them. He was both relieved and infuriated that after so long, the solution had been so simple that Arcade could offer it without batting an eye.

Speaking of Arcade, Joshua eyed him warily. He did not want to thank the man, let alone like him, but he could not simply leave without some compensation for the work, and some acknowledgement that it had taken place. For once, he appreciated the other man’s flippancy when Arcade rolled his eyes as he cleaned his surgical instruments.

“I did it for Ken. Poor guy’s been saving himself for you, and it’s driving him crazy. Consider this an act of charity. My blessing, if you will.”

Joshua glowered but managed a nod as he tied the last of his bandages back in place.

“Well. You are many things, most of them unpleasant, but you are skilled at your craft.”

It was the best either of them were going to get from the exchange. Arcade nodded.

“I know. Consider it on the house – I barely did anything. You do owe me for the stimpacks, but the stitches are free. Oh, and one more thing. It’s still likely to be difficult for you both. Neither of you are packing standard equipment. If things aren’t working out, take this advice. Don’t forget about your prostate. When in doubt, let him finger your ass. Now get out of here – I have work to do. Actual, non-charitable, self-serving work. Adios.”

Joshua limped back to keep watch over the sleeping O’Hara, and found himself too tender to kneel. Instead, he lay down on the ground beside the courier’s prone form, shoulder to shoulder, and listened to the ghoul’s rattling breaths. Now that the immediacy of the procedure and examination were over, the mortification and anger set in. Joshua seethed quietly, but one thought soothed him. _You did this for him, not for yourself,_ he reflected. _If it’s not selfish, if it’s an act of good will, then it can’t be enough to damn you._

He sighed.

_Don’t let me be wrong about this, Lord. Don’t let this be another Legion. If I ought to reject him, tell me now, before things go too far._

The Burned Man glanced over at the courier’s bandaged eye socket and shuddered, knowing full well that, for better or worse, things had already gone way beyond ‘too far.’


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things first:
> 
> The quote from Ecclesiastes is: "It is better therefore that two should be together, than one: for they have the advantage of their society"
> 
> Radioactive broc flowers don't exist in-game and if they did, probably wouldn't glow like this, but it's a nice visual so I rolled with it.
> 
> And the song that is referenced is Nevertheless (I'm in love with you) - the Mills Brothers version, which has a great Fallout-y vibe, and is also just a really sweet song. Listen to it here, if you want:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qQMntAr9aM
> 
> Onto the major focus of this author's note.  
> Well, we finally have some smut in this chapter, but, I hope, also some good character development. Being as I'm still chaste and waiting to discern my vocation (as celibate or as married/committed,) I can only imagine the sort of soul-searching these fellows will have to do after they finally get together for the first time. I would hope that, if one truly finds the person God approves of for you, the feeling of 'this is the right thing' ultimately supersedes the awkwardness and guilt surrounding sex. That said, I don't think it ever truly goes away for people raised in the kind of Catholic upbringing O'Hara had. I know I'm still working through all my issues with the concept of it, and that's with me being almost 24, and regularly writing fanfiction where characters have sex. It's not the act itself that disturbs me - it's the way it distracts you, in the moment, from God. I think O'Hara feels the same way. But I reckon, the compromise is that you simply take care of your earthly body, and its needs, as he and Joshua do in this chapter, but then redouble the rest of your time, not spent on intimate activities, towards glorifying God. And if the person you're sleeping with is helping you to be a better person over-all, then it's not as big of a deal that you are periodically wrapped up in loving them, so long as everything stays in perspective. But that's just my two cents - and goodness knows, not everyone feels that way. But O'Hara's celibacy endears him to me, so I hope I can kind of show that, even after the act of losing one's virginity occurs, you can still be a good Christian and keep God your priority number one.
> 
> Whatever. That's enough of me talking. On with the show!

* * *

O’Hara woke feeling like he’d been shot in the head – again. He groaned and looked around, only to see Julie Farkas coming in with some fresh bandages. She smiled broadly at him.

“Good to see you awake,” she beamed.

“How long have I been out?”

She began to unwind the gauze covering his eye.

“About a week. Your fever broke last night. Arcade had a stroke of genius and actually injected you with a radioactive solution he prepared, and made use of the whole 'ghouls respond positively to radiation' thing – that’s what did the trick. We’d never seen a ghoul with a fever before. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Goody,” O’Hara grimaced, sitting up as his eye was examined.

“Your sutures are healing well. You should be able to go home today, if you like.”

That brought a genuine smile to the courier’s face.

“By the way,” Julie continued, “You have a visitor. He’s been sitting vigil beside you since you were brought in.”

“Oh yes?”

O’Hara looked over as someone pushed past the tent flap. Joshua stepped inside, shame clear in his blue eyes.

“I’ll just go throw these bandages away,” Julie announced. “Feel free to leave whenever you like – Arcade will stop by your place tonight to check on that eye one more time, okay?”

O’Hara nodded, unsure of how he felt to be left alone with the Burned Man. Once Julie had gone, Joshua spoke, his voice low and measured.

“I mean to apologize to you. I gave in to wrath, and acted in anger. It was wrong of me.”

O’Hara nodded, recollecting his own response.

“I wasn’t much better,” he admitted. “What do you say we forgive each other? Go back to how things were when we got along?”

Joshua nodded, and offered the courier his arm.

The hospice room was empty, and O’Hara noticed it had been cleaned, top-to-bottom. He raised his eyebrows as he settled down on his mattress, head still aching a bit.

“Who did all this, then?”

Joshua looked away.

“It was the least I could do, given how I behaved.”

He hesitated, then produced something from his pocket. It took O’Hara a minute to recognize it as his box of letters – all written and never sent to Joshua. They must've fallen out while he was cleaning the mattresses. It was the ghoul’s turn to drop his gaze.

“I – they’re just –”

“You love me.”

He nodded, startled.

“You know that – I’ve never been hesitant to tell you.”

Joshua waved his hand dismissively.

“I know, but it is one thing to be told the words, and another to see… month after month of one-sided conversation. All while you did not know if I was alive or dead.”

O’Hara shrugged, warm with embarrassment.

“I just… I missed you,” he mumbled. “You make me feel… human, I suppose.”

“You make me feel the same,” Joshua interjected, “which is, I think, what I find so upsetting about our… union. I have spent a lifetime deadening my nerves – it doesn’t do lose all of that now.”

O’Hara responded by patting the mattress next to him. Joshua joined him with a wince, seeming to move more gingerly than usual.

“You are something that an enemy could easily use against me,” the Burned Man continued. “It does a man in my position little good to have friends.”

“Ecclesiastes 4:9,” O’Hara retorted and Joshua nodded.

“I know. I know… I have been thinking about little else, these past few days. I have decided it is wrong of me to do anything by half. We both have our pasts to contend with, and the uncertain future before us. It is better that we share these worries with each other, and gain strength from such bonds of trust, than to shoulder it all alone.”

O’Hara grinned at that, even though it made his sutures pull a bit, and took Joshua’s hand in his own.

“I’m happy to hear it.”

They sat in silence, then, but it was a contemplative, agreeable silence. When Old Ben ambled in to ask if they would be joining in dinner service, both men were in good spirits, and agreed. It wasn’t long after that the sun set, and that Arcade came around to check on his patient and to help hand out soup to the less fortunate. O’Hara felt giddy to be well enough to work – to have mended his fences with Joshua. Periodically, he would catch the Mormon’s eye when handing him an empty bowl, and they would crinkle in private happiness.

For the first time in what felt like an age, O’Hara felt truly at home.

Dinner was busy, and even after the last patrons had trickled away, there was work to be done. O’Hara attacked the mountain of dishes, singing softly to himself as he did so.

A soft knock on the door frame startled him and he looked over his shoulder with a smile. Old Ben stood before him, slipping his arms into his jacket.

“Well, I’m off for the night, if you don’t need anything.”

“Oh, that’s fine. Thanks for making the soup tonight. And for all you do – you’re a gem,” the ghoul smiled, hands still dripping.

“It’s a nice night,” the old man remarked. “Nice enough to sleep outside, even.”

O’Hara blinked, bewildered.

“I… suppose. Not that there’s any need – we haven’t filled up all the beds tonight.”

“Mm. I’m just saying. We have such a nice little fenced in yard. A bit of rearranging and it’s private as you please.”

The ghoul snorted.

“Are you implying something, here, Ben?”

“Me? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The old man winked, turned to go, and added, “but I’d take a look outside, just the same, if I was you.”

O’Hara stood, stunned, in his wake, hands still dripping. He dried them on his trousers and wandered over to the back door of the building. He could faintly here music playing from beyond the door. Confused, he nudged it open, and what he saw had his remaining eye widening in surprise.

The yard had been cleaned of debris, with a bunch of irradiated broc flowers strewn around the place. Even picked, the petals glowed brightly enough to cast a dim but consistent light around the space. A radio had been set up near the far wall – the source of the music. There was a mattress on the ground – dragged out from the hospice room – and sitting on it was Joshua. It took O’Hara a moment to process the sight before he realized that, while the Mormon was fully clothed, his bandages were absent.

“What,” O’Hara croaked, “what is all this?”

Joshua wet his lips with his tongue.

“An… apology. If you’ll accept it.”

_Maybe I’m right and maybe I’m wrong/_   
_And maybe I’m weak and maybe I’m strong/_   
_But nevertheless I’m in love with you._

The music lent the whole display a dreamlike, nostalgic quality that tugged at O’Hara’s heart. He nodded, stepping into the yard and shutting the door behind him.

“I… this is… you went to all this trouble… for me?”

O’Hara couldn’t believe it. Joshua nodded.

“I thought perhaps you’d like to have a… what did you call it in the Old World? A picnic? A picnic with me.”

Joshua gestured to a previously unnoticed collection of Pre-War foodstuffs. O’Hara furrowed his brow.

“Between those and the flowers… you’re likely to make yourself very sick. Radiation isn’t trivial, you know –”

Joshua nodded.

“I know. I took a great deal of RadAway before setting this up.”

O’Hara accepted this at face-value, and was half-way through his portion of Salisbury steak before he realized the implications of such preparation. He choked and coughed to clear his throat, causing Joshua to look up in concern from his own supper, which he was picking at with little enthusiasm. (He did not share the courier’s love of Pre-War cuisine.)

“You… you want to try again?” the ghoul ventured. Joshua responded by setting his plate aside and reaching for the courier’s shirtfront. He reeled him in, like a fish on a line, and only spoke when their mouths were all but touching.

“Your doctor friend… may have offered us a second chance.”

O’Hara’s mind raced with curiosity, but any further questions were forgotten as soon as Joshua kissed him. The ghoul sank into the embrace, opening his mouth immediately, addicted to the sensation of something other than pain.

They kissed with enthusiasm, if not finesse, and O’Hara found himself guiding Joshua to lie back on the mattress. His hands settled on the buttons of the Burned Man’s shirt.

“Can I… please?”

Joshua nodded and sat up slightly, shrugging out of his sleeves. O’Hara pulled his own shirt off and threw it somewhere over his shoulder, too addled to care where it landed. The radiation of the flowers was prickling along his skin like electricity and each little jolt centered in his groin. He tugged hopefully at Joshua’s belt buckle and again was given permission.

As O’Hara sat back to remove his own slacks, he watched, his mouth desert-dry, as Joshua, eyes lowered, removed the final barrier of cloth between them. It was not that he stripped in any style, with the intent to seduce. He undressed with the regimented swiftness of a soldier. It was not that at all – no. It was that the glow of the flower petals was just enough to see by – and the courier could not mistake the small, dewy spot where Joshua’s arousal had dampened his temple garment.

Once they were both bare, O’Hara’s previous questions were answered. He gaped at the limited motion now possible for Joshua’s shaft, and a slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face.

“You… you can…?”

Joshua shrugged, still tense and uncomfortable being exposed. He moved to distract O’Hara and take the upper hand, but the ghoul shook his head, pinning him to the bed with a grin.

“Please. Let me.”

The ghoul silenced any protest by sucking at Joshua’s scarred throat, hard enough to be felt. It was truly delightful, feeling some of the tension go out of the man beneath him. Joshua’s hands clutched at the mattress in a vice grip until the ghoul coaxed one to wrap around him.

“If you want to stop at any point, just say the word, right?” the ghoul breathed. Joshua managed a curt nod.

O’Hara’s cock throbbed as he kissed a slow and winding trail down the scarred expanse of Joshua’s chest. He paused when he reached the other man’s hip and glanced upwards.

“Joshua?” he murmured, forcing the other man to open his tightly-shut eyes and meet his gaze.

“I have a... a request.”

The Mormon swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

O’Hara fought with all his might against the embarrassment he felt at saying such a thing out loud – if he read his partner right, the result would be worth the social discomfort of asking.

“I should very much like to use my mouth on you. Would that be alright?”

Somehow, while the man’s burnt cheeks gave nothing away, O’Hara knew Joshua was blushing.

“... yes,” he whispered, his blue eyes dark with need. O’Hara ducked his head.

The shaft was still mostly fused at an angle, but there was about an inch and a half that Arcade had managed to free. The stitches were still fairly fresh, so the courier was especially gentle as he pressed a kiss to the organ’s tip. He felt Joshua twitch and harden further, and marveled at the way that it no longer was painful – or at least, now was bearably so.

Carefully, the ghoul slipped the head of Joshua’s penis into his mouth. He tongued at the slit experimentally and the Burned Man inhaled sharply. He pulled back and looked up.

“I know you’re embarrassed,” he acknowledged, “but I would feel more comfortable doing this if you could let me know what sounds are good and what sounds are bad. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Joshua opened both his eyes and his mouth to respond but when O’Hara licked him, he only managed a mangled groan. The ghoul held his gaze as he lapped at the hot flesh that pulsed in his grip. It seemed now that Joshua had given in and looked down, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Now, where,” O’Hara murmured to himself, pausing to catch his breath, “in all this scar tissue are your-”

His other hand found the distinctive swell of Joshua’s testicles, almost entirely hidden in ridges of melted skin. He raked his nails over them – an accident – and was rewarded with Joshua’s breath hitching, and his hips grinding into the touch.

“Like that, do we?” the ghoul rasped, and repeated the motion. Joshua bit his lip, face tightening with the effort to keep silent. O’Hara yearned to hear him, but he did not want to push for more than he was already happy to get. Instead, he guided Joshua’s hands to his hair and exhaled softly over the other man’s spit-slicked length.

“You can be a bit rough,” he admitted shyly. “If you like.”

Joshua struggled to speak for a moment.

“I don’t – it’s your – I don’t need to be.”

The Catholic nodded and found he could no longer meet his friend’s eyes.

“No,” he confessed. “You don’t. But… I wouldn’t mind if you were.”

When he again began to lick and nuzzle at Joshua’s prick, O’Hara thrilled to feel hands tightening their grip on his few patches of hair. His legs spread further apart involuntarily and he began to rut against the mattress.

The ghoul did not have his partner’s stoicism, and such self-stimulation, clumsy and chafing as it was, had him mewling around his mouthful. The hands tightened further at that and Joshua pressed O’Hara down against him so firmly that it was all the courier could do to try not to nick him with his teeth, and to remember to breathe through his exposed nose-hole. The idea of Joshua standing over him, holding his head in place and taking what he wanted, suddenly flashed through O’Hara’s mind and he came so suddenly he lost his balance, mouth sliding off his prize and head coming to rest against Joshua’s stomach as he furiously humped the rough, stained fabric of the mattress, streaking it with glowing strings of ejaculate.

The sight was too much for Joshua, who spilled against O’Hara’s neck and shoulder, clutching the ghoul’s skull in his hands as though it was the only anchor keeping him from floating off into space and being lost in the universe. Not being as prone to self-abuse as O’Hara, and having spent so many years unable to reach a satisfactory climax, Joshua came in pulse after pulse for what felt like hours. For a delirious moment he actually feared he wouldn’t be able to stop, but as soon as he thought so, the last aftershocks rattled through him and he was able to sit up and survey the damages.

O’Hara had left a rather disconcerting glowing mess on the mattress, but, more upsettingly, Joshua noted that his issue had utterly drenched the other man’s back – a wayward jet of semen actually reaching all the way to O’Hara’s right buttock. He grimaced and pushed O’Hara off him as gently as he could.

“What a mes–” he began but was cut off by the courier’s mouth covering his own. He realized that the strange taste he could not immediately place was actually _himself_ and he had to fight down a wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him.

The reality of what had just happened finally sunk in, and the Mormon wanted nothing more than to be dressed and bandaged again. He said as much when O’Hara broke the kiss, and waited for the courier to protest, but instead, the ghoul just chuckled.

“I’m dizzy with guilt myself at the moment,” the ghoul admitted. “Do you mind if we just have a quick wash and get everything tidied up?”

They both took comfort in the busywork of cleaning, and it was only once they were both dressed and all the evidence was cleared away that O’Hara spoke, unable to keep a nervous, boyish giggle out of his tone.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he confided. “Do you feel changed? I feel changed.”

Joshua furrowed his brow.

“For the better, or for the worst?”

O’Hara shrugged.

“I dunno. It’s just different – two centuries, I’ve done without that – and now I don’t know how I’ll manage two days!”

Joshua nodded warily.

“Was it worth the wait?”

O’Hara considered the words for a long time, moving to lie beside the Burned Man, staring up at the night sky. The stars were invisible this close to the Strip, and the void loomed over them, vast and endless.

“I am glad I waited, yes,” he decided. “I’d wait the rest of my life before I did such a thing with anyone other than you.”

He laughed again, giddy, and wished he had a cigarette.

“Feeling guilty where sex is concerned is pretty standard stuff, for Catholics,” he mused aloud, “let alone ones who’d thought themselves destined for the priesthood. The thing that mitigates it is that, when I’m with you, I am a better Christian than I am on my own. The ninety-nine percent of the time when I don’t have my mouth on you, I’m thinking about how much you enrich my faith.”

Joshua hummed in agreement.

“Intimacy raises similar feelings in me,” he conceded, “but I am glad that this happened with you, if it had to happen at all. You challenge me every day. Such growth is… unusual for me, but not unwelcome.”

O’Hara nodded sleepily.

“Exactly,” he mumbled. Then, “I think I’ll have to skip my night prayers and just do two sets in the morning. It feels a bit wrong, going from… _that_ to an ‘Our Father.’”

“But you… you don’t regret it?”

Joshua’s words betrayed his own concerns, and O’Hara smiled, snuggling close to him.

“No. I feel blessed that I found someone as lovely as you to share that with. And I’m glad you enjoyed it too – you did enjoy it, I hope…?”

Joshua nodded in a manner that could only be described as timid.

“I did,” he mumbled. “But I am too tired for all this talking.”

O’Hara yawned in response and tugged a blanket – which Joshua had brought out in case the night air bore a chill – over them both.

In short order, Joshua was snoring softly. O’Hara listened to the rhythmic sound and offered a quiet prayer of thanks heavenward.

_I’ll make up my other prayers later, I promise. Just… thank You for this. For him. He’s the second most important thing to me in the universe, after You. I never thought I’d ever feel this type of joy – never thought I had the vocation to marry. We aren’t married, Lord, I know – not in law, or in Your Holy Church, but I hope, in Your Eyes, You can see us as bound together by faith and fraternity, and now affection of another kind. It can’t be so grave a sin, surely, when we’re better men of faith together than apart._

O’Hara yawned again, thoughts trailing off. He mumbled a soft ‘Amen’ against Joshua’s scalp and felt the Mormon stir and mumble something incoherent in response. The Burned Man pressed closer into O’Hara’s chest, draping the taller man over his back and shoulders like a cloak. O’Hara spooned him, content and sated, and did not feel pain in his eye, or his knees, or his arthritic knuckles. He felt lighter than air – and perhaps that was just down to the radiation that was all around him in the flowers, but he liked to think that it was simply what a complete state of Grace felt like. He hadn’t felt such peace in so long – since the bombs dropped – but basking in the sense of calm, he knew that what he felt was a gift, a manifestation of God’s pure and perfect Love.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaangst  
> also, trigger warning for Legion's being slaving douchebags
> 
> the plot ~thickens~

* * *

Breakfasts at the drop-in center were a humble affair. Oats, most mornings, with the occasional fruit thrown in. Eating them became a familiar part of routine for all who stayed there for a length of time. Old Ben, Joshua and O’Hara would sit and eat together, after serving any of the transients and patients in their care. They would talk of everyday things, of O’Hara’s pre-War memories, of politics and faith, and gradually Joshua began to tolerate the social interaction, though to say he enjoyed it would be an overstatement.

It was such a morning when their world came crashing down around them.

O’Hara was recalling details of his years spent as captain of his high school basketball team when an urchin came running in the door, panting and frantic.

“NCR sent me,” he forced out. “Had a fight with… Legion slavers… survivors are coming in now.”

The three men were on their feet immediately. Old Ben set about preparing the house as a back-up location in case triage exceeded the Old Mormon Fort’s capacity, while O’Hara ran after the boy. Joshua was frozen, a slew of different emotions rooting him to the spot. O’Hara left him and barrelled down the street as fast as his old joints would allow, supplies in hand.

It was clear, upon reaching the gates, that the NCR had won, but the win had not come easy. The party had been four days’ walk from the Strip and the added burden of injured slaves in their midst had slowed them down. They said they’d been walking towards safety for a week in all.

There were only a fraction of slaves left. Many had succumbed on the trek – so horribly deprived had they been in the Legion’s care. Of the original number, which estimates posed was eighty, even one hundred in all, there remained forty-eight. The youngest was about five, terrified, mute with horror. The eldest had fallen some time before, and had crawled on his knees for two days, too weak to stand. The military had fared better – the soldiers had only lost a handful of their men. Still, it was a horrible sight – those that returned were malnourished, wounded, and exhausted.

“Where do you need me?” O’Hara asked of Julie, who he spotted, delegating tasks. “I brought some stimpacks and a doctor’s bag.”

“Thanks. It’s chaos right now – maybe see if you can –”

“He’s needed here,” a voice cut in. Arcade rushed over, sleeves rolled up, blood streaking his arms.

“I have to get back to work,” he explained hastily. “One of the slaves is in labour.”

“Oh no,” O’Hara murmured. “Will she be –”

“It’s doubtful. Look, you need to see to the elderly slave – you’ll be able to offer him more help than anyone here.”

“How do you mean?”

Arcade wiped his brow, leaving a red steak behind. He looked more rattled than O’Hara had ever seen him.

“He’s a ghoul.”

As the commotion raged on and the Followers tended to the wounded, O’Hara sought out the wretched creature. He knelt beside the wizened form and stroked the scarred, grizzled head that lolled with exhaustion.

“Easy – you’re safe now.”

It was a bit of a fib, really. No doubt the Legion would want to retaliate, to take back what they believed was theirs. God alone knew where this opportunistic rescue would lead the NCR, and the Strip.

He had thought the ghoul to be feral, at first – so bad were his wounds and disfigurements. It became clear, however, that the poor soul had been beaten to the point that he was now unrecognizable even to one of his own species. O’Hara took a bony hand in his own and held it gently, shaking his head at the state of his charge.

The ghoul’s back was peppered with wounds which stained his shirt with blood. He looked up and O’Hara suppressed a scream – the man had been rendered blind by two slashes of a Legion blade.

He traced the ghoul’s swollen and mutilated flesh, ascertaining the damage, and all the while he spoke to him.

“Why did they do this to you?”

It was not the right thing to start with – not when the doctors needed detailed medical information. Still, it was what came out when O’Hara first opened his mouth, and it prompted a wet gurgle from the slave that it took the courier a minute to realize was a laugh.

“Prisoner of war,” he rasped. “They were going to crucify me. Not a bad end for a man of faith. I made the mistake of asking them to. So the plan changed. I was to provide entertainment to the troops.”

O’Hara’s blood ran cold.

“En… entertainment? Of what kind?”

The older ghoul gurgled again.

“Whatever they chose. Slavers we were with suggested combat – gladiatorial, you know. Me and a deathclaw. To the death.”

O’Hara shuddered. He stroked the broken knuckles in his grasp.

“What’s your name?”

The ghoul wheezed, pained.

“Athanasius,” he croaked. “Athanasius McGowan.”

The courier froze. It was an unusual name. A saint’s name, and an Irish surname that, when taken together, were unmistakeable. It was impossible, and yet…

“F-father McGowan? Of California?”

The beaten ghoul paused.

“… Now, how on earth could you know that?”

O’Hara began to sob, and it took him an age to compose himself enough to speak.

“It’s Kennedy O’Hara,” he wept. “Oh, thank the Lord – I thought – I thought no one else remained!”

He fell upon the wounded priest, crying and cradling him like a precious thing. The older man responded slowly, arms stiff with disbelief.

“Is it you? It can’t be… am I dead?”

“No,” O’Hara sniffed, and placed the other ghoul’s hand on his face. The priest passed a thumb over the scarred tissue, and the crater that was the courier’s nose.

“So it happened to you too, then?” the old ghoul murmured, and coughed, blood wetting his lips.

“We’ll get you mended,” O’Hara insisted. “Here – let me give you this shot.”

The heavily irradiated injection – Arcade’s now-trusted recipe – went over well, and gradually the old ghoul began to breathe evenly. The bleeding slowed, and skin started to knit itself together.

“Kennedy – my boy,” Father McGowan pleaded hoarsely, “don’t you be leaving me here alone, now. Not in the dark – all alone. Can’t see… can’t see you. Can’t see anything. Bastards took my eyes, and now –”

“Course not,” O’Hara replied. “I’ll not leave you. I’ll stay right here until you’re well enough to be moved, and then I’ll bring you to my home where you can stay.”

“You O’Haras always were good stock,” the old ghoul slurred, exhaustion catching up to him at last. The courier held his hand and watched him as he slept.

It was impossible – finding a Californian – finding _this_ Californian? Two hundred years and change.

“Miraculous,” the courier murmured. “Thanks be to God.”

It was only hours later when Arcade deemed it safe to move the priest that O’Hara realized the complication this reunion brought. Joshua was waiting at the door to help install the patients and he did a double-take at the sight of the wounded ghoul.

“Is it wild?” he blurted out. Arcade explained the situation, though he did not know the significance that the old priest held to O’Hara. O’Hara found he could not articulate it. He merely stayed by the invalid’s side until Joshua insisted he come out back and talk to him about something serious.

When he got there, the Mormon reached for him and claimed his mouth with a nervous kiss.

“I can’t,” O’Hara breathed, pulling away. “Not just now. Only –”

“Was it no good?”

O’Hara shook his head.

“It’s not that – Joshua you know it isn’t. I just… I have a lot to think about right now – I’ve been working all day.”

The Mormon recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

“Right,” he said curtly. “Well. Forget it.”

He wouldn’t meet O’Hara’s eyes. The courier realized at once that the man was ashamed.

“Oh – I’m not upset you kissed me. I am so fond of you – please don’t get angry with yourself. There’s nothing wrong –”

“Clearly.”

Joshua sighed.

“I apologize. That was… juvenile of me. Forget I troubled you.”

He turned and disappeared into the building. O’Hara returned to the old ghoul’s bedside and began, once again, to cry. This time, the tears fell so silently that they were unknown to anyone but him and God.

He was grateful for his friend’s return. He was so worried for Joshua. Yet, surely the man understood – with a priest in the building – and anyway, suppose the Church had survived?

O’Hara sobbed harder, stifling his cries with his hand.

_Suppose it was possible to be ordained after all?_

“What do I do?” he whispered. “What do I do, Lord? No matter what, I break a trust.”

He could not think to pray. He could not even think to sit anymore. He laid down on the floor, having given up his mattress to one of the injured, and relished in the discomfort. He knew, with certainty, that he deserved the pain.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a happy turn of events! Father McGowan fills Ken in on the state of affairs of the post-apocalypse Church, and taboos surrounding ghoul marriage. he also proves that some priests are really empathetic and lovely people (he may have been a traditionalist before the bombs fell, but he's an advocate for the underdogs of the world, now.)
> 
> much as I'd like to, it'd be hard for me to write of the Church in this context without giving her something to struggle with. I like to think the number of ghouls in the clergy would cause some initial disagreement over the treatment of smoothskins, which, I believe, will work out for the best in the end, but which, for now, is the latest drama of the age. being an agent for change in a religious community generally means being ridiculously patient.
> 
> also warning for some Catholic in-joking of the 'you should convert your friend' variety. nothing serious meant by it - it's just how McGowan deals with things he doesn't know what else to do with (like Mormonism.) But fair warning for his sort of style of humor.

* * *

“Speak, child. The tension in here is thick as hot tar.”

O’Hara looked into the blind eyes of his old friend, brow furrowing.

“Speak about what?”

He made to spoon another mouthful of broth into the ghoul priest’s mouth, but McGowan shook his head, lips pursed. O’Hara sighed and set aside the bowl and spoon.

The makeshift bed for the Father had been set up in the chapel, which McGowan had promised to sanctify as soon as his strength returned.

“We can say Mass,” he suggested, “if you be my eyes, that is.” Of course, O’Hara had agreed.

For now, however, the ghoul remained feeble and frail, tucked up in bed, away from the others. O’Hara left the care of the other patients to his capable friends, and focused all his attention on rehabilitating the man he’d known since birth. He had learned much in the days since McGowan’s arrival. He learned his family had made it to a Vault – that they had lived out the rest of their lives in peace – for which he was eternally grateful. He learned that McGowan had been turned when he was exposed to the radiation, straggling behind as he made sure everyone else was accounted for. He learned that there were still some priests in California – mostly ghouls, but with a few seminarian Vault-dwellers joining them. There was, apparently, a little convent on the coast. McGowan’s Vault had opened a decade after O’Hara gave up and left the state. He had missed the revival of the Catholic faith by what, in a ghoul’s lifetime, was scarcely a moment. McGowan had made his journey into the wastes many times, finding straggling believers and amassing converts. He’d been enslaved suddenly, recently, but until then, had had his share of victories.

The Church was alive. The faith was still strong. Contact with Europe was still impossible, but there were efforts to attempt it – to see if the Vatican had survived.

“I baptised you,” McGowan continued. “I know when you’re troubled. I can feel it in you, Kennedy.”

O’Hara took the gnarled hand in his and gently cradled it, mindful of the other man’s wounds.

“I have so much I want absolution for,” he began, “centuries of small transgressions… but they all pale in comparison to what I… what I’ve done of late.”

McGowan remained silent, giving O’Hara time to structure his thoughts.

“On some level, I never thought I’d see the Church again – I was alone for two-hundred and some years.”

“You had Christ with you.”

“I know that – and I did. I do! I just… now you’re back, I don’t think I can…”

O’Hara inhaled shakily. He recalled the look of raw betrayal on Joshua’s face and swallowed.

“I need your counsel,” he admitted. The old ghoul nodded.

“As a friend or as a priest?”

O’Hara huffed out a small sob of a laugh.

“I don’t know anymore.”

McGowan hummed quietly.

“You are deeply troubled,” he mused. “Have you… committed a mortal sin?”

O’Hara nodded, and then, remembering the state of the Father’s eyes, he mumbled a meek yes.

Instead of condemnation, he heard kindness and warmth when McGowan squeezed his hand slightly and spoke.

“Which one?”

O’Hara swallowed again. Tears filled his eye and he sniffed.

“Lust,” he confessed. “I… I lay with someone.”

“Someone?”

“Yes. It was wrong to do it – it didn’t feel wrong then – but now… I didn’t know the Church had survived!”

His voice broke and he wept in earnest, pressing the other ghoul’s hand to his face for comfort. McGowan ruffled the remaining scraps of his hair affectionately.

“You thought they’d died then. Your parents. You thought you were alone in the world… the grief must’ve been unimaginable.”

O’Hara nodded against the other ghoul’s hand. He hated to think of those times when he’d looted corpses for liquor to drink and hidden, alone and terrified, in the ruined remains of the city. He locked those memories away for a reason – he was sure that hell would look just like America after the bombs.

“You found a moment’s comfort. In those circumstances, I imagine anyone would have.”

O’Hara looked up, confused for a moment, before shaking his head violently.

“No – it wasn’t – I only did this this year!”

McGowan made a soft noise of surprise.

“Oh, I see. I misunderstood.”

“It wasn’t just a… fling,” O’Hara explained. “My vows… I lived by them. I was chaste, all that time. Then I met J– my someone. And… I don’t know. I feel like a better person when they’re around. I feel like a better Christian.”

“Feel like? So you’re still seeing her?”

O’Hara stumbled on his affirmative.

“But not intimately,” he clarified. “Not since I found out about the Church.”

McGowan considered this for a long time.

“Do you want to marry this girl?”

O’Hara hung his head.

“I can’t… we can’t marry in the eyes of the Church.”

“She’s divorced?”

The courier quivered. He felt nauseous and tense. Dishonesty did not suit him.

 _A lie by omission is still a lie,_ he chastised himself, but what else could he do?

“We just can’t. But if it were possible, I would… I would want to. We’re stronger together than apart, I’m sure of that – alone, all I do I weep and fret! I broke the heart I held most dear and I can’t… I thought it’d make me clergy material again, but all it’s done is sucked all the joy out of the world.”

McGowan nodded.

“There are three paths for a Catholic, you know,” he said. “Celibate singlehood, the Clergy, or marriage. You won’t be the first fellow to leave the priesthood when he discerns his vocation. And besides that, you weren’t ever ordained.”

“Yes, but –”

“Are you sure you can’t marry her? Is there nothing you can do to –”

“It’s Joshua!” O’Hara blurted, unable to lie any longer. As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. The stunned expression on McGowan’s wounded face only made him feel worse.

“You mean – the Mormon? And you’re a –”

“Yes,” O’Hara forced out. “And, yes. I always was.”

 “Even when I knew you?”

“Even then.”

O’Hara made to pull away and was surprised by the force by which he was held back.

“He hasn’t converted you, has he?”

O’Hara was so startled by the question, he simply answered ‘no.’

McGowan grunted at this. O’Hara could practically _hear_ him thinking.

“Ken,” he said at last, “you… you don’t think you’re the first homosexual I’ve met, do you?”

He sounded incomprehensibly patient, if a bit tired. O’Hara shook his head.

“I don’t understand.”

“I knew a few men of the cloth in my day who were like you. They never acted on it, but the inclination was there. They were still good men – good priests.”

O’Hara processed this haltingly.

“But I… I acted on it,” he insisted. “And what’s worse, I got Joshua to sin with me.”

“He’s a Mormon, Ken. He’s already sinning by default.”

There was a note of mirth in McGowan’s voice. He shook his head.

“Dear, good child. Do you kill for sport?”

“N-no.”

“Do you rape the innocent? Take more than your share? Act with malice?”

“Of course not!”

“What you described to me – and I’m speaking as your friend, now – it sounds like love. Not lust.”

“But I…” O’Hara lowered his voice, embarrassed, “I… desired it.”

“Yes, well, I imagine it would’ve been a terrible bore if you had not.”

O’Hara shook his head.

“I don’t understand any of this,” he reiterated. “Are you… are you giving me your blessing?”

McGowan chuckled.

“In a manner of speaking. Look, you have no way of knowing this, but… the Church – what’s left of her – is still split on the issue of ghoul marriage.”

“Ghoul… marriage?”

“Even if you wanted to marry a lady, I’d have had to break the news that, as of now, you can’t, if you don't meet certain criteria.”

O’Hara nodded numbly.

“I thought most of the surviving Church _was_ ghouls.”

“This is true. It’s not ghoul marriage that’s the problem, it’s ghoul to smoothskin marriage.”

O’Hara opened his mouth in surprise.

“What? Why?”

“There are some who think that ghouls are currently… holier. I mean, literally of course, we are. My chest looks like a block of Swiss cheese.  Beyond that, I don’t agree. Just because we remember the old ways doesn’t mean we can’t sin. Moreover, just because someone was born in this wretched wasteland doesn’t mean they’re some kind of ignoramus. I think it’s a bunch of malarkey, to be honest.”

The old ghoul sighed and scratched a faintly glowing patch of skin on his throat with his free hand.

“If this… Mormon… makes you a better Christian, you ought to stay with him. You sound fairly committed now. Besides, there’s a silver lining here.”

“There is?”

“You might convert him yet,” McGowan grinned. He patted O’Hara’s hand.

“Go apologize. Make amends. The Church will find it in her heart to come to terms with you. An institution so old is never quick to change, but we wouldn’t have stuck with it if we didn’t believe that good would rule out.”

O’Hara murmured his thanks and excused himself, and only when he was out of earshot did he sag against the wall in disbelief.

“Joshua,” he realized, “I must find him!”

He hurried down the stairs and found the Burned Man in the yard, peeling potatoes for their next dinner service. He looked up, eyes hard and cold, yet still that blue gaze thrilled the courier, even heated, as it was, with anger.

“There are no words I can say that will take back the pain I caused you,” O’Hara said softly. “Only know that I love you more than I ever thought possible. You’re my life, Joshua. I can’t be a good Christian without you. I can’t be anything without you, now that I’ve had you for myself.”

Joshua stared at him, unreadable.

“Will you forgive me? I swear to you, I’ll never stray from your side. From this day forward, you have my allegiance and commitment. Please.”

O’Hara knelt, potato peels dampening his trouser legs.

“Please,” he begged. “Will you accept my heart? It’s yours for all time – I mean that.”

He used his height to his advantage and took the seated Mormon’s head in his hands. When he felt no resistance, he covered the bandaged mouth with his own. Joshua made an anguished sound and nearly tore the bandage off the lower half of his face, kissing back with a ferocity that startled them both. When he pulled back, his eyes flashed wildly.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said, and it was meant to be menacing, but the breathy hoarseness to his voice betrayed his feelings. O’Hara nodded.

“I won’t. Oh, I was a fool to reject you! I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

He enfolded Joshua in the tightest hug he dared – still loose by the standards of anyone not living with chronic pain. He warmed when he felt Joshua hug him back.

“Thank God,” he breathed. “Never again, I promise. You’re the love of my life.”

Joshua said nothing, but his arms tightened their hold.

They held each other for a long time, just breathing, and listening to one another breathe.

“I have to get back to my rounds,” O’Hara finally admitted, reluctantly pulling away. “More sickbeds to sit by.”

Joshua nodded, replacing his bandage.

“I will make it up to you, though,” O’Hara insisted. “I promise you that.”

He rose and tuned to go, when Joshua spoke.

“Have you reconciled things, then?” he asked thickly. “With your faith?”

O’Hara turned back and smiled.

“Yes, I have.”

Joshua nodded, and let the courier leave, content to learn of the details later.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left after this one! Have some smut! (And by some, I mean 7 pages of porn. Mea maxima culpa for being fallout trash lol. I just had to throw a bit more Joshua-in-throes-of-passion into this fic. :P)
> 
> Also, Moonlight Serenade is beautiful and romantic. And I personally hate the Ultra Luxe but hey, other people can have sexy fun times where they like, lol, fictional couples included.
> 
> Also, Arcade deserves a gold star for being the main force for getting these two to have sex with each other. Without him, we would probably be pornless.
> 
> Finally, the idea that on the rare occasions Joshua swears he tends to do so in Latin is a headcanon I love and am sticking to, because we all know men get a bit ~vulgar and tough~ in the military, and being a good Mormon boy, he probably wouldn't have a lot of swear words in his repertoire before falling in with the Legion. Plus maybe he feels a bit less guilty if he cusses in something other than his mother tongue. :P

* * *

O’Hara smiled to himself as the soft tones of ‘Moonlight Serenade’ drifted through the sultry air of the rented room. The glamour of the Ultra Luxe that had alienated him before was more familiar now, and a bit of irradiated water had left him feeling fine. Joshua was due to return from his soak in the baths any minute, so O’Hara used his momentary solitude to his advantage, ensuring everything was perfect for their reconciliation. After all, he had sworn he’d make it up to Joshua in his apology, and the ghoul was a man of his word.

He had just finished lighting the last candle when the door creaked open and Joshua shuffled in, uncomfortable in his hotel-issued bathrobe, sans bandages.

“How was your bath?” O’Hara asked, stepping forward and reaching past the Burned Man to shut and lock the door.

“Fine, but for the staring.”

O’Hara nodded.

“Other people can be cruel without thinking,” he mused. “Don’t let it weigh on you too much. I, for one, think you’re the handsomest man in America.”

Joshua snorted but did not protest when O’Hara put a hand on his waist and began to sway with him.

“What are we doing?” he asked after a while, and the ghoul couldn’t help but grin.

“Waltzing.”

Joshua allowed the courier to lead in silence for a time, before speaking up again.

“We’re not in time with the music.”

O’Hara laughed and shook his head.

“Don’t ruin this. I’m dancing with the love of my life. It’s perfect.”

He pressed a kiss to Joshua’s bare cheek.

“You’re perfect.”

Joshua rolled his eyes but didn’t fight it – that is, until O’Hara tried to dip him, and they both fell awkwardly onto the bed.

“Well done,” Joshua grimaced. “Ken O’Hara, king of the ballroom.”

“Sorry,” O’Hara wheezed. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not permanently.”

The ghoul smiled at that and moved to untie the knot in Joshua’s belt. The Mormon stilled, frowning.

“What are you doing?”

O’Hara raised one patchy eyebrow.

“Do you honestly not know?”

Joshua shut up and lay back, staring impassively at the ceiling, feigning indifference as he was exposed to the ghoul’s appreciative stare.

“Gosh,” the courier breathed. “I’m lucky.”

“Hardly,” Joshua made to retort, but it came out strained as O’Hara’s mouth kissed along a whorl of scar-tissue on his hip.

“I want to hear you this time,” O’Hara insisted, biting gently on the Mormon’s inner thigh.

“Sorry to disappoint, then,” Joshua hissed. “I don – don’t make a sound.”

“No? Not one sound?”

O’Hara flicked his tongue over the head of Joshua’s cock casually as he passed it to nibble on the man’s other thigh.

“Nnn – n-no. Never in my life.”

O’Hara considered the man’s restraint as he lapped at disfigured skin. An idea was in his head – put there by a certain doctor who only had their happiness in mind.

“I bet I can make you. Turn over.”

Joshua looked up, alarmed.

“What –?”

“Nothing bad, I promise! Please, Joshua? If you don’t like it we can stop –”

O’Hara pleaded with his single eye, making it as big and doe-like as possible. He fluttered his lashes absurdly.

“Alright! Alright… enough.”

The Burned Man slowly turned, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with haughty embarrassment.

“There. Satisfied?”

O’Hara swallowed hard.

The sight of the authoritative, righteous Joshua, bent over, rump raised, did something to O’Hara. He felt an echo of something primal, something feral, and he had a sudden vision of mounting the man roughly. No doubt his less-enlightened ghoulish brethren would have, in his state, and it took him a moment to come to terms with just how much power he had been given. He swallowed again.

“Please tell me it’s alright for me to touch you,” he breathed.

Joshua shrugged – awkwardly, given his position, and hid his head in his arms, not wanting to witness whatever was going to come next.

O’Hara leaned in, heart pounding in his chest. Something wet slid over Joshua’s hole and his entire body jolted, as if shocked. Nothing had ever licked him there – no tongue of man, no tongue of flame. It was the only external part of him that had been spared the fire. A kiss to that place was jarring, and the roughness of O’Hara’s lips, and smoothness of his gentle ministrations seemed incongruous – should’ve seemed wrong, Joshua was certain, though his mind was muzzy, fizzling out at the edges.

“Is this fine?” O’Hara murmured, scalding the orifice with heated breath. He flicked his tongue again, once, twice, then sucked wetly at the ring of muscle that twitched in response. Joshua made a strangled, desperate noise, and pressed his pelvis back involuntarily, forcing the very tip of the courier’s roving tongue inside, breaching the virgin passage. Joshua stifled a moan in the crook of his elbow, prompting O’Hara to withdraw, peppering the scarred cheeks of his buttocks with eager kisses.

“I want to hear you, Joshua. _Please.”_

He forced his face once more into that warm, private space and wormed his tongue as deeply as he could into the man. Joshua’s thighs tensed and trembled and O’Hara stroked them, as though soothing a wild animal. He traced those hands up and over Joshua’s back and down to cup handfuls of his backside. Another forceful probe and Joshua huffed out a quiet sigh, still unwilling to voice his pleasure.

O’Hara kept his mouth busy as he fumbled in the nightstand for the items he’d stowed there. He found the small jar of lubricant Arcade had given him – _God bless the doctor!_ he mentally noted – and managed to slick up one of his fingers.

He pulled back, giving his jaw a rest, and traced Joshua’s quivering hole with his index finger.

“May I –?”

Joshua grunted in affirmative. Gently, slowly, O’Hara slipped his finger into the tight heat. He groaned in spite of himself, sucking a bruise on Joshua’s behind.

“I wish I could have you,” he admitted throatily. Joshua scoffed under his breath.

“What makes you th-think I’d be the – nngh – woman?”

“No woman here,” O’Hara said cheekily, tickling Joshua’s scrotum. The Burned Man hissed and clenched around his finger.

“I forgot you liked that,” O’Hara mused, and nipped at the mutilated flesh. Joshua’s legs spread wide and he keened, hiding his face in shame. The sound was glorious. O’Hara got more slick and added a second finger. Joshua keened again.

After what felt like an eternity, O’Hara let his arthritic joints recover and retrieved another item from the drawer.

“I want to take you,” he stated, and this time, rather than protest, Joshua merely shook his head.

“It’s n-not possible… you’re in no condition –”

O’Hara made one last trip to the jar before rising up on his knees and pressing the tip of something hard, blunt, and cool against Joshua’s entrance. The Mormon flinched, turning ‘round in shock.

“What is –”

“It’s me.”

He repeated this, soothingly, as he inched forwards. Gradually, the length of the thing slid inside – Joshua squirmed in discomfort. O’Hara rubbed his back lightly.

“That’s it – slow and steady. It’s just me, Joshua. Just me.”

He groaned as he came to the hilt, his own cock leaking pre-ejaculate, dampening a small spot on his trousers.

“What is it really?” Joshua groaned, eyes shut. O’Hara laughed warmly.

“A bit of woodworking. I started it in Utah – meant it to be a walking stick but… well. It became… something else.”

O’Hara punctuated this with a roll of his hips – a movement synchronized with his manipulation of the wooden phallus. If he shut his eyes, he could imagine it really was him inside Joshua.

A particular angle of the rod made Joshua cry out, suddenly, before he could muffle the noise. The needy sound was unlike anything O’Hara had ever heard out of the Mormon, and he decided he liked it very much indeed. He repeated the motion and Joshua sobbed into the mattress, shaking with a spasm of tiny, tingling tremors.

“That’s me,” O’Hara murmured again, unable to stop himself. “That’s me in there, feeling like that.”

Joshua moaned in response. O’Hara grinned recklessly and kept up his monologue, not stopping for fear of losing his nerve.

“Do you like this?” he panted. “You like me inside, f-fucking you?”

He stumbled on the swear, but it was worth it for the way that Joshua arched into his thrusts.

“Yeah,” he continued, more than a little self-conscious. “You do like it. Like taking it.”

Joshua nodded, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle a particularly loud cry. O’Hara pulled it away without thinking, pinning his wrist to the bed.

“Let me hear you,” he insisted. “Let me hear how you sound when you’re full of my fat Irish prick!”

“You’ve a wicked tongue in your head,” Joshua forced out through his teeth. O’Hara responded by pushing the wood in deeper and turning it to grind hard against Joshua’s insides. It must’ve been the right course of action, as Joshua swore – some bit of Latin from his army days – and came so violently he all but fell off the bed.

O’Hara sat back, cleaning off his bit of woodcarving, admiring his handiwork. Joshua’s chest was heaving and it took him an age before he was able to speak.

“Where… did you learn all that?” he asked finally, an edge of wonder in his tone. O’Hara chuckled.

“Arcade may’ve told me a few things to try.”

Joshua nodded, too worn-out to be angry at the doctor meddling in their affairs. He managed to roll onto his back, struggling to catch his breath.

“All… all that talking?”

O’Hara felt his skin heat up – a ghoulish blush.

“That was… improvised,” he mumbled. “Sorry if I got… um… carried away.”

“Your ‘fat Irish prick’? Really?” Joshua mimicked, but there was a note of amusement in his tone. O’Hara groaned and hid his face in his hands.

Obscured as his vision was, they sensation of a hand on his fly made him jump. He dropped his hands and stared at Joshua in confusion.

“What are you –”

“Fair’s fair. You deserve a turn, if you’ll accept it.”

O’Hara’s breath caught in his throat as Joshua opened his pants and fished out his prick. It was the first time Joshua had ever reciprocated to such a degree and the sheer novelty of it had him swooning.

“How do I –?”

Joshua studied the mutated organ with a furrowed brow. O’Hara showed him his usual method, and sat back to enjoy what, he was sure, would be the best hand job of his life.

Joshua bent over his lap, scrutinizing the tumor-rimmed urethra exposed by O’Hara’s peeled-back flesh. He hesitated, then pressed a chaste kiss to the opening. It was enough.

O’Hara came without warning, too elated to be embarrassed that he’d finished so soon. Joshua recoiled, but not in time – gooey strings of glowing semen struck him squarely in the face. O’Hara whimpered at the sight, sliding the tip of his disfigured shaft against the Mormon’s cheek accidentally. He couldn’t help the words that slipped out from his lips.

“You’re lovely like this.”

Joshua paused, his blue eyes dark and deep. He seemed to reconsider his retreat, and instead leaned in to kiss O’Hara’s throat, biting down on the ghoul’s musculature. When he pulled back, satisfied that they were both, now, equally marked, he murmured against the hole where O’Hara had once had an ear.

“Tell me you brought RadAway with you.”

O’Hara nodded.

“Half a dozen units,” he replied. Joshua laughed in response.

“Well. I suppose I know your definition of an apology, then.”

O’Hara mumbled something incoherent, embarrassed but not unhappy. He gave in and joined Joshua in laughter, drawing the other man close and holding him until the fit subsided.


	24. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're here! The end of a fic I have thoroughly loved writing, and my longest fanwork to date. All of the support of you great readers - your comments, your kudos... it all means so much. I have loved writing this, and I have grown a lot in doing so. I've learned more about my own faith, and about Mormonism, in the process - I've been able to express queer Christianity in a way that, hopefully, shows it is possible for people, in practical, not merely hypothetical, ways. And yeah. I've just had a ball writing this. So thank you all so much, and God bless.
> 
> This epilogue takes place some time (unspecified - no more than a year or so) in the future from the last chapter. And in that time, the outreach program has expanded somewhat, O'Hara's scavenged, or bought, or commissioned, a glass eye for himself, and Joshua has learned how to loosen up... a bit. I hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

“- so the Samaritan was the one to show him mercy. What makes this significant? Why does it matter that it was _this_ man who came to aid? Yes – Sally.”

“He was a regular person. Not a priest or anything. Just a person.”

“Good. And what does that tell us? Does anyone know?”

Shuffling. Uncertainty. A timidly-raised hand.

“Yes?”

“That… even important people can do the wrong thing?”

The door creaked open slightly as Joshua made to reply. He glanced up, mouth still open to speak, but his words died in his throat at the sight of O’Hara, leaning against the door-frame, smiling.

“Please, don’t let me intrude,” the ghoul insisted. “I was just passing by. What are you working on?”

Sally – recently relocated from Primm with her parents – tucked her mousy hair behind her ear and answered shyly.

“The parable of the good Samaritan,” she said. O’Hara nodded, ambling in and taking a seat on a nearby chair. His now-passable, if imperfect, skills as a carpenter had not gone unused in building the Sunday School furnishings, but he considered, as he sat on the low seat, that it might’ve been wise to build some of the chairs adult-sized.

“That’s a lovely story, isn’t it?” he mused.

“Why? Two of the three people don’t help the guy,” retorted one boy – he was a newcomer, and the wasteland had hardened him. Rumor had it he’d had cousins in Nipton, poor kid. He was, if O’Hara recalled correctly, no older than eleven, but already there was a cynicism in his eyes that made the ghoul’s heart sink a bit.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” he conceded. “Joshua, have you explained to them the significance of the man’s origin yet?”

“I was getting to that.”

“Oh, would you mind –”

“Don’t let me stop you. You’re on a roll now.”

O’Hara nodded, turning his attention fully to the gaggle of youngsters.

“Now, the man who is hurt in this story is Jewish. The fellow who helps him is a Samaritan. At the time this took place, these people would’ve been enemies. It would be like an NCR soldier finding a Legionnaire and helping him. So you see, it’s more than just a stranger helping a stranger. It’s a story about an enemy helping an enemy.”

“If I met a Legionnaire I’d spit in his face,” the new boy glowered and O’Hara noticed Joshua’s slight wince out of the corner of his eye.

“Such anger is normal, for anyone in such a situation. What makes the Samaritan good is that he not only engages the man – something that even the priest and temple assistant fail to do – he is also merciful. That’s something that Jesus wants us to try to be – merciful. Now, the parables are told to us for a reason – and it’s not because these are easy things to struggle with. Goodness knows, everyone has moments when they don’t do the things they should – I am sure some of you have things you could tell to Father McGowan right now in Confession. The point is that this story illustrates what we should do. Jesus believes in us – He knows we can do more than we think we can. Unlike you and me, Jesus knows our true potential. That’s why He challenges us to do a bit more than what’s ‘normal.’ That’s what makes this special. It’s more than just a story – it’s Jesus showing us what we can accomplish, if we follow His lead. Does that make sense?”

The kids nodded – even the new boy, though his brow remained furrowed.

“Okay, that’s enough for today. Go outside – get some fresh air. There are snacks if you want them – just go ask Old Ben. Okay? God bless you.”

The crowd dispersed quickly, hastened by the promise of food. When at last the final child had gone, O’Hara sighed and shook his head wistfully.

“I worry about that new boy. The things his family’s been through… I hope the message gets through to him.”

The walls of building were painted in children’s hands. Blobby flowers, love hearts… and, in blocky capital letters, the message ‘FAITH - HOPE - LOVE.’

“The message has got through to souls more lost than his,” Joshua remarked quietly, coming to stand behind the courier. He wrapped his arms around the taller man’s waist. O’Hara turned and smiled down at him.

“You’re a good teacher,” he murmured. “Really. Very paternal.”

“I’m not – I can be very stern with them. I don’t believe in coddling children, you know. I won’t see them kept weak or helpless.”

O’Hara nodded, still smiling.

“You’re a natural. I’m impressed.”

He leaned in and added:

“I think it’s rather sweet.”

Joshua snorted indignantly, but O’Hara didn’t miss the warmth that flashed briefly in his eyes.

“What would you do without me,” he retorted, and he meant it flippantly, but the words silenced the ghoul. The smile faded at the reminder of his ghoulish lifespan, and the years when he would inevitably be, once again, alone.

“Oh, I didn’t mean – look, I’ve got at least twenty-five more years in me. More if we’re being optimistic.”

“Don’t –” O’Hara began, but cut himself off. “That is… I could be the first to go.”

“That’s not –”

“Or we could go together. Who knows? War could be on our doorstep tomorrow. I’ll have to leave soon, if I’m called upon. Not to fight - I don't want to fight... but if I'm needed -”

“I’m far more of a combative asset than you are –”

“I just… it’s not in our hands. We can’t know these things. It’s not naïve to think that, you know. To put that trust in God.”

Joshua responded by pressing his bandaged lips to the courier’s mouth.

“No more of this today. Sadness doesn’t suit you. It’s disconcerting to see you with just one eye misting up like that. It’s uncanny enough as it is.”

O’Hara grinned through the beginnings of tears and tapped his fingernail against the glass that filled his other socket.

“Hey now, this is good craftsmanship!”

“It’s unsettling – and the colour’s all wrong.”

O’Hara laughed, shaking his head.

“You know it scares the children when I go around without it.”

He hooked a finger under the cloth covering the Burned Man’s lips and tugged it down.

“I don’t like you wearing these either,” he teased. “But we have appearances to keep up.”

Joshua allowed another kiss, equally chaste, before pulling his bandages back up.

“Appearances indeed. I won’t be caught fooling around with you in the classroom.”

O’Hara chuckled.

“You know I’d never agree to something like that. You’ve nothing to fear from me, or haven’t I made that clear? I’m terribly noble, really.”

“Hm. You're downright chivalrous. Come on – I want to get some reading in before dinner service.”

The drop-in center had outgrown its humble beginnings and now most of the operations had been transferred over to what was, once, Cerulean Robotics. Sunday School, hospice and day-care services, a small lending library, and a food bank, all operated there, along with the nightly dinners. There was space cleared and converted into a chapel where McGowan could say Mass – albeit with O’Hara compensating for his sight. The old, original ruined building had been re-purposed for storage and residence – O’Hara and Joshua’s specifically, with McGowan living above. The chapel on the top floor was the old priest's bedroom, a space for private prayer and, occasionally, stargazing (they never did get around to fixing that hole in the wall, and McGowan said he didn't mind the breeze.)

There was something soothing about it all. Even if Caesar did win, O’Hara reasoned – even if the sky itself fell down upon them, or if Judgement Day came tomorrow, he could find a bit of peace in their home for now. The sick-room had been thoroughly cleaned, the walls whitewashed, the floor scrubbed. A vase of broc flowers sat on a low table in the corner, and the sight of it made him smile, weary, but content.

“Joshua,” he began, taking off his coat and hat and rolling up his sleeves habitually. “You don’t have to read right now, do you?”

Joshua moved past him, book already in hand, and took a seat on their shared mattress.

“I’m nearly at the end of this,” he replied, brandishing a scavenged copy of Moby Dick. “Miss Farkas wants it next.”

“Mm. I see. And are you enjoying it?”

“It’s… illuminating. I’d never been quite sure about whales.”

“Yes, I imagine you didn’t see much of them, in Utah.”

“Indeed. I could never before picture Jonah inside of one. Now I can.”

O’Hara joined him on the bed with a groan, knee popping audibly.

“Ugh. These joints! Well, anyway, I suspect I ought to read it then, after Julie. I never have, you know. I did see a whale once, though.”

“Did you? A real one?”

“In the flesh. You forget, I lived quite near the coast. I’ll confess, I think I’ll enjoy that memory more than Mr. Melville’s work. You’re a far more voracious reader than I am, and I had a false start with that particular book in my teenage years.”

“Oh?"  
  
“I’d rather hoped it was a story about something else.”

Joshua put the book down and gave O’Hara the most withering look in all of human history.

“Not working? And here I was, ready to follow up with a clever line about being swallowed.”

“That is too close to blasphemy for either of us to fall for,” Joshua countered flatly. _“And_ it’s terrible. You’ve been spending too much time with your doctor friend.”

“Arcade? Why I've scarcely seen him all week! Besides, I’d much rather spend time with you.”

O’Hara punctuated that statement with a pointed up-and-down glance and, when he wasn’t rebuffed, a movement of his hand, which came to rest on the Mormon’s upper thigh.

“…”

“Yes?”

“Stop fondling me. I’m trying to read.”

“…”

“Right, fine,” Joshua snapped, and set the volume aside, “but don’t take this as proof your flirting is anything short of disdainful.”

“If you’d flirt back, maybe I wouldn’t have to. It’s hard to be creative, in this day and age.”

“Mm. I imagine a lot of things are _hard_ for you.”

“…”

The ghoul’s single eye bugged out of his head slightly, before his face split with a toothy grin.

“Did you just –”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kennedy.”

The Mormon's eyes betrayed his mirth, however, and discussion, thereafter, was mostly non-verbal.

\- THE END -


End file.
